X3:Evolution
by TheWhippedCreamofConsciousness
Summary: Fan plotline in prose form for the third XMen movie.


He had chased her for hours through invisible, winding paths of cascading branches. Sweat mingled with dew from each trembling leaf, her desperation entwined with the sweet smells of the forest. It had began with a voyeur's intensity, a predator's steely gaze obscured by a mesh of foliage as she stopped to drink at the stream…Then exploded into a cry of instinctual panic, a man's presence betrayed by the sound of unsheathed metal. She was seemingly determined to make a game of it. In his wild pursuit, he'd failed to overtake her.

It was not for lack of effort. She was fast, but not fleet enough to draw out a marathon such as this. No, he was enjoying this grim dance. Careening through the brush, hurtling the stumps and fallen trees, euphoric spasms marched the length of his spine, their manic cadence kept by the ferocious heart driving him forward. Steeped in the thrill of the chase and hunched over like some Stone Age hunter, he was oblivious to the incidental thorns or twigs which bit him like unwanted company. He was growing more accustomed to this now, since…

A brief pause, but painful enough to have shaken him from his bliss. Brushing off leaves and unwanted memories, he dives again into the blackened path her fear had left for him. Rolling left, then right into a natural clearing, the reddish fur that somehow manages to keep its hue in the cold splashes of moonlight implores him. Beyond his control, a pleading hand is raised, then another. Something metal and awful catches the moonlight. For an instant its reflection off her eye traces a head turned back, a neck bared in anticipation. There is fear. There is hunger. There is no sound. His eyes glaze over in a superhuman glow. The animal strikes. The man is no longer there.

Silence wanes now. His own gradually calming rhythms follow the fading drumbeat of her pulse as she marches to her final destination. One by one the sounds of the forest return to him, or does he leave them? An owl nearby, the insects' choral chirping, even the subtle tremor of leaves in a quiet breeze – distinct colors returning from the relative obscurity of the monochrome haze in which he swam just moments ago. What had been a graceful doe lets slip a final twitch. He could smell a buck, yards away. The dawn was fast approaching, his mating urge would lead him onward – but not to her. This time, _he_ had gotten to her first. But it was not the same.

The blur had all but subsided now. He was back in control. Had he lost control? The echoes of conversations from days ago, the man-made sounds of screeching metal and electric pulse, the chores of the moral man beckoned him now. The sense of obligation had returned, and so had the pain. Forcing himself slowly upright, his eyes ingest the moon one last time. Another hunt had failed to sate the animal within, and it would be a long walk back to the jeep. A walk filled with her last real conversation with him….

"_Logan, don't make me do this."_

"_Do what?"_

"This_." _

And she had walked away.

* * *

"It's not really a question of debate. Scientists have proven this with simple experiments." He pauses, telling himself it is for dramatic effect, all the while scanning the lecture hall in earnest to make sure everyone is more or less conscious. Noting at least four casualties, he continues. 

"Consider tests with rodents, which know by the cast shadow of an airborne predator to scurry for cover, lest they 'go gentle into that good night.'" He steals another quick glance of the student body, obviously pleased with himself, and sighs in defeat. The finer words of Dylan Thomas were lost on this video game generation, presently yielding en masse to a deep, sweet coma. And then he simply loses them completely.

He'd opened the window to rouse them from their stupor, hoping the crisp air would do what his truly invigorating scientific theories could not. But there attention has turned from theory, to the flittering practitioner making its way to and fro, just inside the window. _Junonia_ _coenia_ enters to grand distraction. Taking in its distinctive marking, McCoy smiles; it is a distraction which can be used to his advantage. After all, had not the immortal bard once said, "Sweet are the uses of adversity"?

"Or consider this species, the Common Buckeye butterfly. Notice the eye-like markings on its back, perhaps used to frighten predators. An evolutionary step, necessary for its survival, has altered the physical form." At that point the collective gusts of the university's fine ventilation system catch the fragile creature's wingspan in a firm updraft. It is already caught in an involuntary climb towards the ceiling, as the class' collective conscious awakens enough to notice the time.

"Please see that your papers are on my desk by the beginning of class on Thursday, else delivered to my office no later than Friday of this week, that's _this week_!" The groans could be heard down the hallway long after the door was shut. Breathing in with quiet despair, he carefully locks the door, and then shuts the windows and blinds. Still fighting its losing battle, the butterfly would need some assistance.

The weight of Dr. Hank McCoy splashes into his leather chair, collecting himself for a moment before setting about removing his rather large shoes and dark socks. As his feet free the confines of his shoes, which are somehow not large enough to contain them, he lets out an almost animal groan of repressed discomfort. The sole-less clogs fall to the floor, revealing the 'socks' for what they were – oppressively tight electrical tape. Unwrapping this societal tourniquet, he is finally able to balance on the two enormous creatures he calls his feet. Staring at the recently liberated specimens, McCoy seems to wait for a silent 'thank you.' It never comes.

For months now the morning ritual had included carefully folding over his amazingly flexible wonders of podiatry, fastening them with the tape, and sliding the still-disconcerting bulges into shoes – 'shoe flaps,' really. McCoy had all but hollowed them out like trees felled for canoes. It was the only way to conceal his secret, but the pains to do so were growing worse, and so were the changes. His work in the lab, nightly rigors of a man possessed, would continue almost until morning – sometimes mere moments before class. He'd gained points with the students on those days, either showing up late from taping down his abnormalities, or arriving in 'hip' animal slippers. The children laughed, and he would keep them awake at least through half that day's tedium, but they would never guess that those over-sized slippers had actually been removed of all stuffing to mask the girth of his…Two. Huge. Feet.

He would return to the lab shortly, after one little rescue. Stretching his limbs to remove the kinks, he surveys the lecture hall not as open space, meeting room, or even class, but as structure - beams, grips, footholds. He raises his head to come to some agreement with the exhausted insect.

"You at least, my little friend, had better thank me." He proceeds to scale the walls.

* * *

A sleek and luxurious car purrs to a rest, black and nondescript but for its obvious decadence. Nondescript, because Warren Worthington II, Sr. has in fact special-ordered it through various commercial interests, calling in favors and making the kinds of action-provoking threats a successful millionaire needs to wield to get respect and accomplish something. The stream-lined delight will not be on the market for another six months or so, but he would undoubtedly be bored of it by then. Feeling along the rich upholstery of his latest fling, Mr. Worthington pushes a hidden button. Marveling at the series of blips and beeps, latching and unlatching, cameras and surveillance equipment that unfold from this simple flick of his finger, he fails to grasp how the wonders of thousands of dollars of gadgetry amount to little more than a high tech garage door opener. 

His cross-examination begins with the guard at the gate, followed by the servant who dutifully opens the door to the car for him. Finishing with Statler, the house butler, he repeats the questioning. Formulaic queries flow in what he believes to pass for the tone of a concerned father, with all the emphasis of the rehearsal he was afforded in the ride from the airstrip to the estate. As though the charade is too foul to stomach, the butler provides a curt summation.

"Master Worthington, as I said before. The young Master Worthington, Jr. arrived in the early evening. Phone calls from the boarding school had indicated he hadn't checked in at the appointed interval several nights before, and a cursory inspection of his student dormitory indicated some disturbance, as though someone had taken it upon himself to demolish the bedroom. The furniture was in disarray, and the bed itself had been ransacked, as though by sharp objects. Pillow feathers littered the room. Until he showed up at the house, sir, we feared it possible he had been abducted."

Worthington, Sr. said nothing as he was escorted up the stairs, appraising the facts as a collector of fine art. When he finishes measuring the points in his own unique way, it is clear his usual logic has prevailed.

"No, no abduction Statler. It's clear what's being ransomed here is my time. He still won't forgive me for 'taking his mother out of his life,' and apparently my business must suffer. The school disturbances, the constant childish entreaties for attention, are what he thinks impresses me. Well mark my words, Statler. Success. Drive. Independence. These are the things that impress me. His free ride is over. He'll never have my full attention until he learns to fly on his own."

Behind the bathroom door, Warren Jr. hears a familiar stentorian voice in full tirade. And it's getting closer. The razor managed to slice just about everything but its intended target, and with each misdirected slice the nervous fumbling of his insecure fingers perpetuated the cycle. Discreet blood splatters arced across the mirror, made oval footsteps scampering on the basin, and finally smeared in thin streaks on the tile beneath his feet. An errant elbow had long ago bumped the faucet, and his all-encompassing fear at the bizarre growths on his back had fogged any good sense to turn it off. They had been easy enough to cover at first – a layered clothing effect topped off with an itchy sweater. But several nights ago, after a prolonged agony that felt like his shoulder blades searing through his back, he had a more urgent and spanning dilemma. His heartbeat rages as he cuts again. Fear of repercussions drive his frenzied attempt at home surgery. Then the pounding begins in earnest.

"Warren. Warren you open this door this minute. We are having a sit-down the likes of which you've only dreamed. This pity party of yours stops now, young man. Do you hear me? Do you have any idea how damaging it is to my shares to have to tell reporters I'm leaving a meeting to deal with my son?"

The philippic continued for another few minutes, while Warren Jr. gauges his options, and finds no easy way out. No time to clean up, though that would undoubtedly earn him further censure. No easy way to explain what…what he'd become. Desperately, he slides on the ice slick the tile has become to the open window. Four stories up, with no ledge to hold – it is not an appealing option. Shivering, either from loss of blood or his father's words, he fights the disgust long enough to look in the mirror. Hugging himself and hunched over, with a huge aerial frame behind him. Were they…Were they just for show? He runs his hand down the mirror to obscure the vision. It is about this time that the faucet water, mingling with blood, finds its way beneath the door to the exquisite shoes of Warren Worthington Sr.

"What the…?" At last, genuine panic.

"Warren. Warren, open the door. If this is about those bumps on you back, we can have a doctor look at it. The best in the country. Warren!" He could see the headlines now, "Millionaire's Son Found in Suicide Scene." His leadership would be in question. The company would never recover. The fear of losing it all gives him the strength to break down the door.

He charges in and ruins his shoes. He does not find his suicide scene; he does not find his son. There is a mess of blood about the bathroom, but not enough to be the death of him. Beside the open window, only an exquisite curtain's flapping waves goodbye. A single feather rocks like a cradle and falls to the floor.

* * *

_Professor, it hurts. Professor! Help me, please_. 

A piercing scream and unearthly swath of light shake the most powerful mind on the planet to consciousness. The blackouts are becoming more frequent, more intense. Daily visions of someone familiar, yet distant, who is in terrible pain. A fetal, yet feminine form yearned for the final stage of its maturation. Turbulent, writhing in amniotic suspension, she is alone and swimming. She is swimming in fire. He gathers himself and looks around. He is back, back in the school. But the students – he fears for their safety.

If they had noticed his discomfort, they were keeping discreetly quiet about it. No. They were actually focused on something else – and definitely not on fire. He breathes a new, relieved inhalation. Planted firmly back in the present, he hears the television news. Trying to balance the surge of psychic energy which overwhelms him, Professor Charles Xavier, despite his best wishes, is able to surmise that many mutants are, in fact, watching this particular broadcast. Their emotions are torrent of hooves.

"This is Deborah Reed. Certainly, the man of the hour is Bolivar Trask, millionaire inventor and industrialist. His Archimedes Industries is holding a press conference to announce, in his own words, 'A two-pronged cure to the mutant problem.' A long-time advocate of segregation, Trask promises his new 'solution' will enable both humans and mutants to live in harmony. Let's go live on the scene."

Mandatory, scattered flashes of bulbs decorate the scene as Bolivar Trask, looking for all the world like a middle-aged Clark Gable, takes the podium. He waits a moment, and his silence washes over the room.

"I want to thank you for joining me on this momentous occasion. I have been asked how I arrived at the name for my corporation. It was Archimedes who said that if he were given a lever long enough and a point to stand upon he could move the world. There is a movement upon us now. Ladies and gentleman, in the past few years, we've seen an escalation in events attributed to the rising mutant population and their incredible abilities. Some have chosen to be silent, or to hide, but others create disturbances which endanger citizens. When pressed about their condition, some display resolute arrogance, while more frequently the physically deformed and bizarre express a quiet remorse for their unwanted state. In the light of this breadth of responsibility or irresponsibility, denial or acceptance, Archimedes Industries is happy to present a solution." A large plasma display rises behind and right of Trask, revealing an unkempt and elderly scientist. His wildly displaced, white hair spikes in all directions.

"I present to you Doctor Gottfried Adler – and his cure for the mutant genome." The camera pulls back to reveal a large mutant seated and waiting restlessly. His visage is almost equestrian, while his lower extremities appear more human. He is, in effect, a sort of reverse centaur. Behind the ghastly face, which Xavier figures to have been chosen for public dramatic effect, the eyes convey a profound sadness. Adler explains the mysterious orange fluid contained within the syringe with which he nears the patient.

A disclaimer flashes at the bottom of the screen, "The Following May Contain Possibly Disturbing Images." Miles away in a carefully chosen facility, one mutant is already confirming that statement. The magnetic field begins to exude from his hands uncontrollably, and the armrests of his iron chair crush and fold like foil.

"It is the product of years of research, which can be administered intravenously or absorbed through the skin. We are still trying to perfect an inhalant delivery system."

Following the injection, the effects are dramatic, but not immediate. With the benefit of a clearly labeled lapse of time, the horse head gives like clay, a series of nips and tucks performed by some invisible surgeon gradually transforming it until all that remains is a chiseled young man in his twenties. The plasma screen goes black to his smile of relief upon gazing anew at his reflection.

"Imagine it. Mutants uncomfortable with their appearance, with their very being, able to change, able to fit in with the society that is confused by their presence. All the violence bred by this feeling of exile quelled with a simple and painless application of this new miracle. Their lives changed. Their histories changed…" The compassion in his voice gives way to stern gravity, as he turns his attention back to the crowd. "And for those mutants who continue to break the law, who continue to harm the decent people of this country and the world, there is another option."

The audience and reporters are caught unaware by the tremendous vibratory force that begins to sway them. Just as murmurings of an earthquake begin to swim through the crowd, their eyes behold the towering figure rising before them. It breaks up and out from the ground, like an obelisk. Twenty-five feet of metal humanoid bulk begin to move, without human instruction. Trask smiles at the obvious amazement which has stolen the collective breath right from the crowd.

"Under the cooperation of United States government and several major governments throughout the world, Archimedes Industries presents the cutting edge of cybernetics: Project Sentinel." The crowd is still stunned. A few veteran photographers get off shots that will put their kids through school. "With Dr. Adler's research in mutant genetics, we are able to isolate occurrences of the mutant gene. We can in effect create a sort of mutant radar. Every one of these sentry robots can detect mutants from hundreds of yards away, and then apply…necessary force to subdue them."

"Subdue them?" Someone in the crowd echoes the sentiments of mutants the world over.

"Project Sentinel was designed to subdue mutant uprisings and ensure for the decent, hard working citizens that beings with extraordinary abilities are still held accountable when they break the law. Sentinels will patrol the streets to complement our already understaffed police and civil service units, protecting civilians from the growing mutant problem." Finally returning to form, reporters begin to raise their hands. Technical questions relating to structure or cost analysis eventually give way to issues of public safety and civil liberty. Trask signals 'last question' under suspicion of losing the sense of awe in the crowd.

"This seems like a rather extreme stance for the government to take in order to prevent mutant crimes. Large robots patrolling the streets? It borders on an Orwellian nightmare. You yourself have been quoted as calling the mutants 'An abomination set loose on earth.' How can you assure the 'decent, hard working citizens' that there are safeguards in place to prevent a catastrophe? How can you assure them this is about security, and not some personal vendetta?"

The question is followed by a long, cold stare. Finally Trask speaks.

"Extreme stance? You've seen the damage these mutants can cause. You've seen innocents get caught in the crossfire. Personally, I'll take my chances with theses sentry robots on the streets. And yes, I have my own opinions on the mutant…issue. As previously stated, the Sentinels act and react to a specific event, namely the detection of the mutant genome at the scene of a crime. They will be working closely with the police departments to insure that Project Sentinel is pursuing _mutants that break the law_ – and that my 'personal stance' is not the driving factor. As usual the United States is at the forefront of this insurance of responsible use of force, writing new laws into effect that will enable law enforcement agencies and national security councils to better coordinate with us, in the face of this growing crisis." Trask appears to stem the tide, winning back their attention, if nothing else.

"The mutants that obey the laws, that stay docile, will have nothing to fear. But make no mistake - there _are_ unpredictable criminals among us. They are unpredictable because of their changes, which even they do not always understand. We must keep them under society's watchful eye. We must keep a balance. The mutants, if left unchecked, will change our very way of life. What is our legacy, for our future and for our children – even for them – if we do not adapt to meet them? They could be in your neighborhood. They could be in your school. For those that wish to change, to come back to society, Dr. Adler offers a cure. Those that dissent…will be dealt with."

Miles away, the master of magnetism rends his television into a thousand pieces, which dance on the floor for hours afterward. Back in Westchester County, Xavier prepares for the coming storm. He recalls slipping into unconsciousness in a small plastic room, the voice of an old friend making a solemn declaration: "War has begun." Charles shakes his head, answering an imagined conversation.

"No, old friend. Not war, but a march. A gallop – the furious gallop of time."

* * *

Rounding the penultimate corridor leading to the planning area, Mystique breaks her brisk stride to catch the unmistakable bellowing of flames. As had been the case for months, 'school' was in session. 

"Good, but you're still holding back. This is not a fireworks display. Release the tempest inside you." He pauses, interrupting Pyro's intended reply with a wave of his hand. "Don't worry about the possibility of losing control. The only ones who'll face the consequences," lowering his head like a stern schoolmaster, he catches Pyro in a concentrated gaze, "are of no consequence at all."

Despite her fluid, shadow movements, the Master of Magnetism had developed a six sense for detecting her presence. Every creature creates some vibration as it moves. Sliding across the metal floor of his own fortress, she may as well have been treading on his skin.

"Ah, Mystique." With a flick of his wrist, the cast iron table in the corner of the room hisses across the floor. A solitary creek betrays its weight as he brings the table to a pivot before them. "I trust you found Mr. Trask's press conference as informative as I did." Pyro spares a glance at the mutilated chair in the back room, collapsed in a heap beneath an awful welt left in the wall. He grimaces, as if reliving the impact.

Her yellow eyes convey pure hatred as she fixes on Pyro. A simple reinforcement of their views, but undeniably confirming that 'school' is _still_ in session. "They won't be happy until we're cowering in the sewers."

"My dear, some of our kind already does, but not for long. I have a little task for you, a first step to unifying our brethren and eliminating these threats once and for all." He punches a few keys on the computer resting on the table, and Pyro looks over his shoulder with some interest. What appear to be schematics for a large compound flitter across the screen in various angles of view. The cold blue light reflects off her face as Mystique takes in the information.

"A holding facility?"

"Oh, quite more than that I'm afraid. This is yet another holdover from the days of our dearly departed Mr. Stryker. I've yet to fully learn the extent of his dealings, but this particular compound was, shall we say, another one of his science projects."

"You mean they tested on us," Pyro offers.

"Quite. It seems our new acquaintance, Mr. Trask, took much interest in Stryker's enterprise, and may very well be using this facility and others like it to experiment on mutants. Creating his metal abominations. Or his 'cure.'"

He blurts out a question, and pauses mid-stream, expecting the typical rebuke for his youthful impatience. "Then why…is it still…_there_?" Craning his head without subtlety in the direction of the deceased chair at the back of the room, Pyro revisits the testament to his new master's fury.

"Trask appears to have a large constituency below him. The government has been hesitant, unwilling, or too stupid to stop him. If the conspiracy against mutants is finally coming to light, I wish to finish this once and for all. Until I know just how deep it runs, until I know everyone involved, I'm afraid discretion will be necessary. Discretion, and some degree of liberation. Which brings us to you my dear. I'm sending you on a recruiting trip." He points at the large chamber in the northeast section of the compound. "You'll find what, or I should say who, we are looking for in _here_. It is a chamber keenly suited to immobilizing someone of his, headstrong nature." She tilts her head in inquiry. Mystique usually entered to _take_. More frequently to erase – whether it be objects or people. He may be a potential ally, but people locked away in impossibly defended rooms were usually put there for good reason. Magneto senses her apprehension.

"Oh, just a little someone from Xavier's past. Someone very angry at Charles for leaving him locked up in that awful place."

"That doesn't seem like the Professor's style," a look of doubt on his young face as Pyro remembers some of the teachings of tolerance and support. He fights back what may be regret, but for a moment.

"Yes, well Charles didn't know our prisoner would undergo some…tests. He didn't think quite that far ahead with his amazing brain. I sometimes wonder if he ever does. He just wanted him taken away, to be cared for in a place where he couldn't do any damage. The government, and Mr. Stryker, had their own unique views on how to do that."

"And he will come…willingly?" She looks for signs from her master of potential disaster, but he betrays none. Instead he smiles reassuringly.

"Just tell him he'll soon be reunited with Charles, and I assure you nothing will stop him from leaving." As Mystique bows to leave on her rescue mission, Magneto interrupts her with a final parting word.

"Oh, just one more thing my dear." Summoning the power that is his namesake, he opens the mammoth doors to his personal study. From a shelf therein to his waiting hands, what appears to be a large bowl spins through the air, silently. "When you free our new friend from his prison, be sure he puts this on. A little something I made to make sure that Charles is always in his heart, but not his head." Mystique leaves with the encumbering object, wondering just how she'll infiltrate a military facility while heaving so much extra weight. It finally dawns on Pyro.

"That thing is a _helmet_? What is this guy, a truck?"

"No, not a truck, but a tool. In the coming days we will need all our resources, and as many allies as possible, to show the world the dawn of a new era. But so many still follow Charles and his childish notion of coexistence. They would join me if they had any real knowledge of the nature of man. I must free their minds from Xavier's hold. Humanity will never change. We will have to make the changes for them. Our numbers will swell, starting with Xavier's school. If I'm to break his hold on his students, if I'm to show them the way, I will have to break Charles himself."

"And how exactly do you plan on doing that? Is this guy gonna tear Xavier in half?"

"He just might, after a fashion." A recognizable expression of anticipation signals Pyro to begin his practicing anew. Taking his trademark lighter from his pocket, he crafts a fine sphere of flame, sending it arcing in magnificent force across the length of the room. Sear marks stain a wall, the ceiling – Pyro looks for disgust in Magneto's eyes, and finds only pure contentment. As he proceeds to create the unbridled display of fury that his instructor has been imagining, Pyro can hear renewed enthusiasm in his master's voice.

"I've tried to show Charles Xavier that standing passive will end with us on our knees, to show him how his ideals are failing our kind. Maybe I need to start smaller – by showing him how he failed his family."

* * *

She dodges the concussion blast with relative ease, neutralizing the laser weapon with a bolt of lightning. The other X-Men trail behind her, obeying her field command to cover her advance. Gliding cautiously across the floor towards the door, she muses. 'Mission accomplished,' Ororo Munroe smiles to calm herself. Surveying the walls, but finding no prominent threats, she decides to act. Then the walls start closing in on her, and they become the threat. When it becomes clear she cannot act, the threat is the petrified figure in field command. Newly unveiled weaponry spews bursts in all directions. Each X-Man reacts in his or her own unique, albeit misdirected fashion, and the results are not encouraging. 

Kitty Pryde, recently elevated to trainee status and visibly shaken, allows her ability to pass through solid matter to flow unfocused. She promptly falls through three levels of the subterranean maze of tunnels beneath the mansion, coming to an abrupt stop in the hangar. The newly discovered Native American boy, hard at work and fidgeting with electronics and welding machines (which Xavier will politely have to invent uses for), pauses to catch her. Dropping her gently to her feet, he silently returns to his laborious rapture.

"Hey, um, thanks for the assist." She smiles coyly. One of the boys in this school is going to notice her if it's the last thing she does. She toes the floor with all the charm she can muster.

His reply is given automatically, and over the shoulder. "No problem. Thanks for dropping by." If the humor was intentional, then this almost passes for a conversation with him.

Her teammates fare no better. Nightcrawler begins a rapid succession of teleportation maneuvers, dodging blasts and pushing others to safety. A cylinder of metal, seemingly anticipating his final jump, encloses him and begins spinning rapidly. Disorienting vertigo distorts his depth judgment. He is unable to teleport safely, and so is effectively trapped. Young Piotr 'Peter' Rasputin, alias Colossus, reacts with characteristic selflessness. Phasing up to a veritable wall of steel, he attempts to shield Storm from the blaster fire. Thus occupied with deflecting their various trajectories, he is unable to foresee or react to the compactor-like walls which sandwich him unconsciousness. Rogue and Iceman bicker with aplomb, the irreconcilable differences of their recent split amplified by the 'fear of abandonment' they display in the wake of their fallen comrades.

"Well, can't you make an igloo or something? Maybe a snow fort?"

"I try, but the blasters are too powerful. Why don't you try kissing one off?"

"Ha!" Jubilee takes a break from her light show to enjoy the humor. It costs her, as a metal protrusion knocks the wind out her, hurling her back against the wall.

A mindful eye in the ceiling-bound observatory appraises the scene.

Bobby's inability to see Rogue's relevance in a battle situation, though tempered with his usual sarcasm, actually paralleled a very real fear of Xavier's. She was insistent, and history had demonstrated her ability to help. But all evidence now pointed to the contrary, from where the Professor sat in quiet observation. _Wolverine is keeping it together, for the most part_ - but Charles knows that is more a function of his protective feelings for Rogue, rather than any self-control. Logan's underlying hatred for the emotional turmoil Bobby is causing her, coupled with his animal instincts, made it very fortunate indeed that Iceman did not find himself skewered on those famous claws.

The scenario is very nearly finished. In the waning seconds of the countdown to auto-shutdown, Wolverine loses what passes for his inhibitions. He hears a final snap by Rogue, referring to Bobby and his 'little icicle,' before the two are incapacitated by nullifying blasts. His parental veil lifted, Logan proceeds to do several thousand dollars worth of damage to sensitive holographic equipment. "That will be quite enough." The voice echoes through the vast expanse of the chamber, and the fallen X-Men are freed. Kitty finally decides to rejoin the group, having stopped for a snack on the way back to training grounds. Wolverine is still breathing heavy as she enters.

"I can see we still need to learn a bit about ourselves, and a lot more practice. You'll be going through individual training sequences now, while I have a word with two of you." Groaning at their dumb luck, Iceman and Rogue are surprised when Storm and Wolverine are instead asked to join the Professor in the control room. Logan promises his time there will be brief.

"Well, I guess we blew that one." Nightcrawler grades the class. Kitty offers a complaint, between chomps on pretzels.

"Why do we have to go over this again, and again, and again…"

"The Professor wants us to be ready for anything, Katya," Ms. Pryde swoons at Peter's Russian pronunciation of her name, "and we must trust his judgment." Jubilee ends the philosophical debate.

"I'll put my faith in an icepack for my butt…I heard that, Drake!" Bobby snickers as they prepare for another go…

"Another expensive day at the office, Wolverine. Care to offer what happened down there?"

"Sorry Professor, it was just…a lapse." His patience, a worn fabric mess of threads, is pulled thin. Bobby has already seen to that. Storm senses the inevitable explosion.

"A _relapse._" Xavier corrects him. Softening, he continues, "Wolverine, Logan. I know you have these paternal tendencies - you feel concerned for Rogue. But she's old enough to deal with her relationships on her own. Some of them will have difficult consequences. The young ones will work this out. I hope you will as well."

He makes an effort at an escape, but Xavier intercepts him for a final word. The fabric is torn. "So why is it, then, that every time you have a 'lapse,' valuable money and energy is spent repairing the aftermath? The young Cheyenne boy Forge is good, but frankly it's getting a little ridiculous." The polite charade of civility is gone as Wolverine leaves. He turns to sneer at Xavier in disdain.

"Sorry, Chuck. Don't buy the cheap parts next time and they'll hold together."

Charles Xavier releases a compressed sigh. "I do _hate_ when he calls me that."

"He knows, Professor. Why did you want to see me?" She has a good idea already.

"Ororo, we've done all we can with the therapy sessions. At this point, the final steps in curing your claustrophobia fall to you. I'm confident that when you overcome these fears, you'll make the field leader we've needed since…" He trails off, and she sees knows the reason. In a vacuum, she was becoming his duly appointed 'daughter' and confidant. In her insecurity, she long suspected that to be the reason for her earning these new responsibilities.

"Since Scott left." She finishes the sentence uneasily for him. He steers the conversation accordingly.

"He made a choice to spend some time away, and we have to respect that. We've all had to come to grips with Jean's loss. Scott's decision is proving to be the wisest."

"What do you mean?" At this question he winces slightly. It would be necessary then, to give her the full prognosis, both for himself and for her.

"I believe the loss of Jean has triggered a latent memory of yours, of the loss of someone close to you. It was a time when you felt helpless, powerless, and constrained. This claustrophobia is the manifestation of these repressed feelings – feelings you need to resolve in order to defeat your debilitating ailment. But you're not the only one dealing with dreams that haunt them." She looks down the hall that Logan has just vacated, then back to Xavier.

"No, not just Logan. _Me_. Since Jean died, I've been having…horrific visions of flame and drowning, torment and pain, on a deeply psychological level. At first I thought it nothing more than residual imagery from melding with Wolverine, but now I'm not so sure. The dreams, like messages, are becoming more vivid, more intense. Clearer, as though the source was channeling toward me. And I have to wonder if this is some repression of my own, or a new entity the likes of which the world has never seen before. And will my X-Men be ready? We're already facing a new potential disaster in this Bolivar Trask…" He stops at the enormity of it all.

"The team will hold together, Professor. We will face it together." He nods at her assurances, and then matches her previous gaze in the direction of Wolverine's departure.

"If Logan can hold it together. Since Jean's death, his transformation has been the most disturbing. Visits to hunting grounds that he tries to hide from me, the increased aggression in thought and action… He's exhibiting all the characteristics of something completely…"

"Feral."

"Yes. And God help us, Ororo. I can't tell if he's repressing something, or if the real Logan has finally been freed."

* * *

At two in the morning, he was no nearer to a solution than the hour, or week, or month before. Test tubes and splashes of chemicals litter the desks. Papers, indented with fierce scribbles, flutter to the floor to join hundreds more. Little notes of encouragement he had found by his favorite writers hung on bulleting boards, or fell to the tiles alongside his rehashed formulas. Others he had simply torn down himself, in disgust. 

Quite honestly, it had gotten worse. The feet, those infernal twin mounds, had apparently grown lonely. His hands, already a mess of nervous twitches and chemical burns, were now all the more awkward instruments, for their size. This alone had been a devastating, but at least it was a recognizable change. The hair, on the other hand was markedly different and disturbing.

Dr. Hank McCoy could hardly recognize himself in the small mirror he kept in the lab, and the enormous feet and hands were the least of his worries. Lab mittens would have bought him time in class – a series of 'lab fun' days would have masked his problem long enough for his brilliant mind to work a solution. Morning shoe fittings were routine. What stared back at him in the mirror now was simply the career equivalent of Armageddon. He had seen similar specimens in books, or in circuses. The condition is known as hypertrichosis, and is believed by many to be the source of werewolf lore. How he had triggered it with chemicals aimed at suppressing his mutant gene would likely win him awards and merit, if he had even the slightest desire to duplicate the process. The clock signaling six hours until class suggests he does not.

This last concoction is his only hope. Public shame and humiliation, gossip about the scientist who turned himself into a wolf – these fears consume him. He has worked too hard to lose it all to his feet. His primary lamps burn out - the endless nights of failed experimentation having exhausted them. A backup generator kicks in to flood the lab with eerie reddish light, casting freakish shadows of gargantuan tubes and chemical trays, like some gothic cityscape. He drains the vial in his hands. He drops to the ground in horror.

Pain consumes him in every imaginable way. Thoughts stampede, smearing on the inner walls of his head. He feels every hair on his body like sandpaper as it grinds through his pores. He clutches himself in agony, convulsing under spasms like a mother giving birth. He loses track of how many times he blacks out, for as long as numbers still have meaning to him. Two enormous clawed feet mule-kick his desk through the back wall into an adjoining study. Everything shelved comes crashing down until the room is flooded with total silence.

What rises off the floor is clearly not a man, bent forward in defeat like an ape preparing to charge. It looks at the devastation of its genesis. It howls with passive recognition. Instinctively it spares a glance in the mirror, shrieking in horror at the purple creature in the mad red light. Shaking off the leaflets of paper stuck to him like some drenched dog, he lunges through a wall to the unready city beneath.

The last leaflet to be blown to the floor by the free night air bares an unheeded warning:

"_Take hope from the heart of man, and you make him a beast of prey."_

_-Quida_

_

* * *

_  
Twelve hours in line begin to take their toll, made all the worse by the parade of freaks snaking through blocks of urban nightmare. Mutants around the nation are flocking to this massive complex, spurred on by hopes of a miracle cure they'd witnessed on television just nights before. Some look sickly, others merely despondent. Still more look like the walking dead. All around him, Warren Worthington, III finds evidence of just how sheltered a life he has really led.

His own frustrating mutation, which is tied down with some phone wire he had found in a garbage can (and wrapped neatly under his father's leather trench coat), seems insignificant compared to the horrors about him. A woman with pale white skin and panda-like birthmarks about her eyes gives him a look of contempt. A lizard man's tongue darts in and out of his mouth. He reels in pain, having leaned to close to the young girl with rocky spikes protruding from her torso in sunray pattern. It is with great relief that he receives a number, and enters the bright, white room buzzing with men in lab coats and relaxed, uniformed men with weapons at attention. At last, he gets to witness the miracle cure first hand.

Some leave with tears in their eyes, while others sit and watch with wide-eyed intensity as doctors administer their salvation. Every once and a while, security escorts a particular mutant to a different area, indicating 'special attention' is required for their cases. A brunette in her thirties had left this way, removed from the waiting room for 'disrupting the environment.' She had taken in interest in the decorative greenery, admiring their every leaf or flower. Another woman, this one sickly thin, had grown impatient while awaiting her turn. She began to yell and scream. Someone commented that she is just too gaunt, and needed to eat more. The first security guard to reach her had convulsed on the floor before Warren's eyes.

Seeking a break from the carnival, Worthington decides to peak behind the doorways that lead to the 'special room.' Security is still trying to calm the spastic jabs of the fallen guard, and Warren is able to slip through unnoticed.

It is more horrible than the waiting room, more disturbing then the line. It may be the vilest thing he has ever witnessed. There is no sign of the mutants who had been removed from the waiting room. But Warren is not alone. In cages on either side of him, captive mutants roll over and moan in pain. Some are disfigured like the ones he saw in line. Some are close to animals. Looking in their eyes, Worthington sees that they are all so human. His every impulse to release the poor bastards from their cages is denied by the door opening ahead of him, he leaps for the exit behind him.

Warren circles the waiting room, his mind flooded with thoughts. _Okay, mutants, sick, horribly sick. Test subjects? For the cure? No. On TV the man had said the cure worked. So... Oh no. Not test subjects. Had they taken the cure? Is that…Is that what happens? Got to... gotta get out of here._ His mind is made up. Looking around, restraining himself from screaming to alert the masses, he begins to leave.

As Warren scans the room for signs of opposition, he can see someone in the balcony configurations above take an interest when he deposits his number in the garbage. It looks like he makes a phone call. Worthington is almost at the exit. The guards are on him instantly, and bring him to a secluded corner, out of general earshot.

"Where you think you're goin,' mutie?"

"I…I changed my mind. I'm not ready yet."

"Oh, you're ready. You just don't know it." One of the guards laughs at this, and Warren tenses as it all becomes clear. They were perfectly happy with all these volunteers. But they had hoped for more, and would likely recruit them if necessary.

The triumvirate around him closes, his arms corralled behind him. Warren doesn't know what he has become. He does not know if he likes it. But he knows he has a choice, and that these men have a problem. Calling on the reservoir of repressed anger which pools from years of verbal abuse, he pulls the loose end of the phone wire. The trench coat bulges to smack the two guards to his rear. He is able to shake off a third, spinning madly. As the trench coat drops like a party mask to the floor, Warren Worthington, III reveals himself in his glory for the entire world.

The room is silent, the guards petrified. Someone makes the sign of the cross and falls to the floor in rapture. The graceful youth before them, glowing in the harsh fluorescent lighting, kicks off the ground with all his might. He ascends the heights of the room with a rush of air. Splintered window fragments crash to the floor to trumpet his departure. The mutants looks skyward, the guards look skyward. Bolivar Trask just stares at his feet. He turns to his favorite art piece on the wall. His contemplation exudes an aura which brings his personal assistant out of a stupor.

"Breathtaking. They beheld him in rapture. Head to the factory, and alter the cognitive computer running production. Make sure the next batch of Sentinels is capable of flight." He looks to the ground floor. What remains of a guard is carried off, nearly slipping out of his uniform. The waiting room is barren. _The mutants will be inspired to come_, he muses with some irony. _And it will be their downfall_.

"See, I am sending an angel ahead of you…"

* * *

By this time news reports of Sentinel apprehensions and 'suspected eliminations' in response to 'mutant brute force' had made hanging around the mansion unbearable, so Jubilee and Kitty decided to 'recruit' Rogue for some 'mad shopping'. As the bus pulled up to the mall, she was still massaging her gloved wrists – the point from which they had dragged her. Eventually Kitty would bubble with excitement over their escape. It would be a welcome change from the constant babbling about every male in the mansion. 

"Oh totally, Jubi. 'The Mechanic' has the quiet boy routine down pretty good, but if you want 'the bod' you have to go with 'The Artist.'" Rogue rolls her eyes. Bad enough to hear them fawning over the teammates, but it was much worse to suffer the pet names. Strolling through the entrance, through the highway of bodies, they fall in line with the pack. It's hard not to notice the metal contraptions among them, but apparently the non-mutant shoppers had already grown accustomed to them. These smaller, more agile models resemble their humongous cousins but for the scrawnier legs, and thicker lower torsos. If this Trask guy is to be believed, the robots wouldn't even be scanning for mutants until something went wrong. Better just hope nothing goes wrong.

"We can hit the 'Fashion Freak' first. They have the _coolest_ earrings there! Maybe stop for candy at that hut in front of the bookstore. God I love those worm thingies. Oh! And we have to finish at the arcade. Totally." Jubilee drew up such a complete plan of attack that Rogue had to wonder why they didn't use her for battle prep. Then Jubilee opens her mouth and the question is more or less answered. "Oh my God! Check out that jacket!"

Kitty plays along to try to glean some of her eccentric friend's fashion sense. Working in front of a computer all day made it difficult to know what was _hot_ on the streets. But Rogue shields her eyes from the glowing yellow vinyl spectacle. She mutters under her breath. _It's going to be a long day. Fortunately, the Sentinels are not provoked by crimes against fashion_.

If her feet could rebel, her shoes would be on fire. But the shop-a-rama has ended, and the 'grand finale' unfolds in the arcade. Having no interest in video games, and no hand to hold, Rogue volunteers for shopping bag duty. Kitty provides the back-up.

"Sure you don't wanna play one?" Jubilee offers Ms. Pryde a sidekick roll, but she passes on the chance. Not having grown up with older brothers put her at a disadvantage against Jubilee's spastic fingers.

"No thanks. Video games and I just don't…get along."

"I thought you were, like, a computer whiz or something…"

"Programming languages, hacking…I have patience for that. But videogames? Argh! They're so frustrating…If I play them too long, it just kinda fries my system, you know?"

"Meh. Okay. But 'Futuristic Commandoes' is just no fun as a one-player." Despite the less-than-glowing review, 'Jubi' sets her mind to 'fragging.' Mechanized soldiers explode in chunks of flailing limbs as Kitty watches in wonder at the digitized characters. They look a lot like the cartoons that hunk Peter draws. Hunched over to get a good view, her head occasionally pops up like a gopher when Kitty's 'radar' picks up a cute guy walking by.

Rogue takes the moment's rest to check out the crowd, and recognizes some young men in the back of the arcade. Mutants in the area, whether actual students of Xavier or not, often stopped by the mansion to get counseling, money, or a place to stay for the night. These guys had taken advantage of all three; she got the idea that they never really settled down anywhere. They start to argue over tokens, and the shouting escalates, but there anger gradually erodes to playful, boyish punches in the arm. Tall, Dark and Handsome gives a shove to the slender boy with white hair. He laughs it off, swinging in an exaggerated arc that crashes into the wobbly gut of the very tall and very wide mountain of a boy beside him. She smiles at the camaraderie, and the touches which people take for granted. The picturesque scene makes the stark robotic bark all the more terrifying in contrast.

"Crime: assault and battery. Perpetrators: mutant. Class: violent. Action: detain or destroy."

The patrons scatter in horror. Two other Sentinels form up behind the original. Rogue realizes the problem first, dropping the shopping bags, for all the good it will do. Robots - no skin to touch. As if sensing her fear, the other girls move in front of her. The three boys have already formed their ranks. Without the benefit of training, they attack.

The white-haired boy seems to disappear, but a wind gust mysteriously funnels a sentinel into the ceiling. "Wind? Inside?" Rogue wonders aloud, but stops to take hold of something as Tall, Dark, and Handsome claps his hands together, splitting the floor before him and sending another sentinel crashing to the shop below. Sentinels begin to swarm the area, and Rogue's training directs her to kick in the fire exit door in back. Grabbing the girls, she motions them forward. Another tremor from the boy separates them. Rogue screams in horror as a blast hits the giant one head on, a sickly burning smell churning smoke into the air. The smoke clears to reveal the giant unfazed and smiling. He heaves the nearest Sentinel completely over his head, and hurls him out the arcade to the walkway, where it smashes through a cell phone kiosk. Rogue reaches the door. Tall, Dark, and Handsome follows.

Jubilee's light show, a dazzling spectacle of electric colors not unlike being inside a neon tube, distracts the nearest attackers long enough for the mutants to regroup. She backs toward Rogue, and they cram the doorway imploring Kitty to follow. Ms. Pryde's cat-like reflexes allow her to dodge another flying Sentinel (the giant boy having tossed him through a wall), but the feint rolls her right before another assailant. Remembering her failure in the mansion, she phases just enough to pass through a nearby arcade game. As the Sentinel swings wildly into the system, Kitty swears she saw it smoking before the violent impact. More blasts dig into the cheap carpeting and concrete, as the Sentinels have begun to shoot out the floor. The three girls leave just as the adaptive robots finally find a way to bring the great blob of a boy down.

"I…can't believe it." Jubilee breaks the silence of the bus ride home. Kitty just stares out the window. The next question has an unmistakable air of hopefulness.

"Do you think they…made a mistake?" Rogue fields the question with levity.

"No. Come on, Jubilee. Think of your video game. These are robots. They don't make mistakes. They don't make decisions. They just follow orders. They just follow a program."

"Well someone is definitely 'not with the program.'"

At this, a teary-eyed Kitty responds. "Yeah. Us."

The young mutant who had fought along side them took this opportunity to join them at the back of the bus. He had waited several stops for most of the passengers to leave. Confident that they wouldn't be disturbed, he enters the fray.

"Are you girls alright? What the hell was _that_? We didn't do anything!"

"I don't think they care what we _do_ anymore. Just _being_ is enough." At Rogue's analysis, he mutters something in profane in Spanish. Rogue looks at his eyes carefully, trying to determine if the insult was meant for her. He was not being counseled at the mansion now. Xavier wasn't lending him any money – Xavier was not around. She had one glove half off when he switched gears.

"Yeah, well. We went easy on them this time. If they try this punk stuff again – ay." He smacks his fist into an open hand. Kitty is too scared to laugh. Rogue just smirks. Jubilee's the only one with the energy for sarcasm.

"Pretty sure of yourself, _Mr_…"

"Julio. Julio Richter." His stomach grumbles a little, he tries to pacify it with a pat. Smiling devilishly, he turns to Jubilee.

"So. What's Professor Xavier making for dinner tonight?"

* * *

She growls at the lack of effort required. A security detail that was nearly unconscious with boredom was simply not enough. Convincing them that a large bowl-shaped helmet, with slits for eyes and mouth, was really a relay system for space-bound laser weaponry provided the only difficulty. She tried to limit herself to under five morphs this time, hoping it would cure her own listlessness at the obvious monotony of her chosen profession. One must always challenge oneself, or grow soft. 

The last trial lies ahead. He is heavily armed, and he is not drowsy. She slaps him at the shoulder, hitting a protective padding that dulls the intended effect of the blow. The guard whirls to defend himself, using non-lethal force in the form of a concussive spray, standard Archimedes Industries issued. Pure shock at the chemical's ineffectiveness is ignored as Mystique disarms him. She breaks his radius and ulna like carrots, ramming him head-long into the uneven metallic wall. He'll spend weeks in a coma, awaking with a marked phobia of weapons and a severed spine. And he'll think his superior officer is the one who crippled him.

Considering the multiple layers of devices, guards, and scanning equipment she has already permeated, Mystique is not particularly suspicious at the relatively simple push button access panel of the prison. Shaped like a white, conical silo at the center of a huge metallic chamber, the cage has no windows. _This is no prison – it is a burial mound_. _Observation of the subject likely occurs through internal cameras, or some other form_, she thought. Her scrambler shows all but two digits uncovered now. Another five seconds…

A pressure release, like a hissing through teeth, acknowledges her success. Assuming her natural form, the lithe blue serpent with fiery hair enters. Orange glowing below the surface, like an airline cabin, indicates the subtle receding dome of the floor shape. Noting with some measure of concern and puzzlement that there are no discernable bulbs to emit the light, she is nonetheless able to adjust to the decline, and makes her way forward. Mystique's keen vision is obscured by a thick, man-made haze of smoke, which assumes a warm yellow color, reflecting the guide lights. She methodically scans the perimeter, looking for movement, furniture, security devices, weapons. More smoke clears to reveal the walls, adorned with dents on all sides – as though a battering ram had laid them siege. Her panoramic survey comes to a halt at the image of a ball of a man, curled on the floor in the center. Final wafts of the mist leave through the open door.

A huge head peaks out and rolls at the neck, slowly. Its eyes open and accept the light. Rigid from lack of use but eager with memory, muscles fight inertia and rigor mortis. Blackened, deep red leather cracks like aging joints. This mound, this mountain, stretching like some great tree off the floor, its every branch yawning, its great trunk arching in exaltation, meets her face. All her experience and training amount to nothing as Mystique is unwillingly moved back in shock as the newborn shakes her foundations.

"WHO ARE YOU?" She makes note of her only exit, brings herself to her full, proud height, and replies.

"A mutant, like you. I've come to set you free, at the request of a _special friend_." At this she smiles. Some of Magneto's confidence steadies her. His interrogation cranks down a notch, creating all the more drama, dreading the next thunderclap. He seems to admire her form.

"And what does _he_ expect in return, this special friend? I've languished here for ages. I've borne the machinations of puny men. Where was this friend while I suffered? WHERE?" His volume had all but returned in full at 'puny men.' She gulped as quietly as possible.

"We've only recently discovered your plight, but you misunderstand. It's not what my employer wants; it's what he can give you." He gives this as much thought as his nature.

"And what would that be?" She gives him the helmet, a goddess bestowing a celestial gift, and turns to walk away. She knows he will follow.

"Put that on, Mr. Marko. You don't want to miss this."

"Miss what?" At this she stops, resting a hand on the curve of her hip. The snake turns, her head tilted as she urges him, over her dipping shoulder.

"The family reunion."

* * *

_Opening one's mind to the breadth and intensity of psychic energy, of which the world has oceans to offer, is a prospect few would exploit given the opportunity. Aided by the most complicated computer in the world, he swims in the void beyond time, beyond understanding. He sees…_

Scott Summers rests his pale green knapsack on the edge of the boat, setting the latter adrift. He paddles methodically, for an hour, to the center of Lesser Alkali Lake. Seafaring journeys of self discovery, desert sojourns, and endless hiking up snow-capped mountains have failed to ease his mind. Perhaps coming back to the source of all his torment will finally grant him release. Scott keeps telling himself that – it was a conscious decision to show up here (of all places). Something beckoned him. He thought he had dreamed a voice calling him, once that of the Professor, once that of a strange, glowing red apparition. The reality is that he simply does not know why he came. And as for where he finds himself, he does not care.

Sensations unexplainable to him, like someone familiar embracing him (calling him), force him to release the oars. Scott looks around wildly, rocking the boat. His balance is already flirting precariously with disaster when he notices the warm glow pervading the lake. Beams of red, fading to white, heated to white, disturb the boat. The water is distressed. He clutches either edge of the boat, thrown on his back by the intense crack of lightning. The elements, the sky, and his fragile vessel are rent asunder, as the entire lake howls in red, as if in flames.

_His mind's eye reels from the purity of light, which splits - and splits again - propagating like asexual microorganisms until each fine star is the window of a building. Pulling away, he would see an entire city…_

"No, I don't have a reading here. Hello! Are you listening to me? I want an IV unit in here STAT!" The doctor has seen it all, but she cringes in the face of this patient. A mutant, though no physical deformity would betray that. Newly developed, simple blood tests had shown the mutant gene, only days ago revealed by Dr. Adler's research and explained to medical science.

"Hr….Grmm…Emm… Cured. I'm cured…Ahhh. Mmm." It was all he had repeated for the better part of an hour.

"If this is the cure, I'd hate to see the disease." The intern's cynicism was not appreciated. He recovers with his best serious and concerned impression. "Umm. What's the diagnosis here?"

"I don't know. It's like….Like his body's…devouring himself. What the hell is that?" Her less than scientific query prompts all to stare down at the metallic wound developing on his arm, exactly the spot where he had received what he believed to be his salvation.

_The docks, an abandoned warehouse. No lights, a congregation, preparation…_

In the hours following Trask's broadcast, he had made the necessary phone calls. His squad was just about together, now. Loading the fifteenth rifle in as many minutes, he gives a pause. For a moment, his head is in the light. The war-torn face betrays years of strain, the frazzled white hair, the eyes…His eye. One is hollow, yellow, no pupil. A scar, like a starburst tattoo, frames the determined eye. A rush of air outside, he turns his head. For just a second, he thought he saw…something outside. An angel. Is he blessed in this coming struggle? He does not know – nor does he care. Back to readiness, he starts loading the sixteenth rifle.

_Further across the landscape of buildings, peering through an open window…_

She had only left him alone for a few minutes, to answer a phone and maybe grab a celery stick to chew. He was two and a half now, but she still couldn't shed all the 'baby weight.' It takes less than two minutes for an infant to become fascinated with a piece of lint. He follows it across the floor, over the blanket, right through his building block tower. He follows it to the open window. He follows it down. Emily rounds the door in time to see his feet disappear beneath the ledge. She can't breath to scream.

The mutant had flown for days since leaving the cure facility, trying to erase the ugly images from his head. If he knew now what he was, it was more from knowing what he was not. A labored scream of pure despair cancels his self pity, and hovering upright he is able to find the source – just as something falls to his right. He ignores the woman thirty stories above, swooping instead after the plummeting debris that slowly takes the form of startled toddler. Ten feet to asphalt, the child is safe in his arms. The young mutant, a swell of pride developing within him, rides a strong current of air back to the window. He trades no words with the woman, and she would have none for him. How does one distinguish between a mixture of shock, admiration, wonder, and thanks, and find the words to express it? Instead she cries with her precious child in her arms. The angel flies away. It makes him feel better. Sadly it's not enough.

_The last visions come in such a flurry, with such sheer might, that like a sputtering reel he is only able to pick out every tenth frame. The Mansion razed to the ground. There are flashes of bright light, entire cities in rubble. Mutants falling in agony, their bodies ravaged. A smile of pale blue death dissolves. Out of the flame, a voice of uncontrollable power, but with the sadness of a child, resonates to him._

"_Professor. No, Professor I killed him. I didn't want to, but I killed him. NO!"_

Charles Xavier finds some peace when he shuts Cerebro down at last. It is temporary at best. Some invisible, impending doom impels him to action, and he directs his hover-seat away, to find his students. Forge's exquisite design allows for increased mobility and accessibility, if not a flare for the dramatic. It may also allow him to join his students in battle if necessary. Most of them are already huddled about the television, gazing in awe at the destruction broadcasted before them.

"…standing here in the Aurora Mall, where Denver police say five mutants were killed while resisting arrest…."

"…hospitals are flooded with cases of some rare form of severe flu. Some sources indicate traces of a foreign substance, the likes of which doctors haven't seen, seeping from the wounds in strange metallic patterns…"

"…reports are coming in. Tom, eyewitness accounts of an 'angel' seen in downtown…" They turn to Xavier, faces of determination, of anger, of concern. He spares them the suspense.

"Well. I see that you, in your own receptive capacities, have discovered what Cerebro was able to tell me. Trask appears to have revealed his true intention: extinction. The time for action—"

"—was when we first heard his plans." Wolverine interrupts him.

Storm tries to calm him down. "Logan…"

He cuts her off.

"No, I'm sick of this pacifist crap. Your dreams of peace, love, and understanding are swell, Chuck. But in case you haven't noticed, the rest of the world isn't with the program."

"Wolverine, I…" Xavier breaks off as Rogue, Jubilee, and Kitty hurry in, panting like children with something important to say. Julio Richter trails behind them, leaning to rest against the doorway's woodwork. With a gust of wind, his white-haired partner from the arcade is beside him. They acknowledge each other's safety, their sullied outfits torn and frayed..

Their disheveled clothing speaks volumes. Wolverine takes a stab at inference, summing up their state and distress. He looks at Rogue and the girls. He gives Xavier a predator's scrutiny.

'_Are you happy now?'_ Logan's mind condemns the Professor at the sight of his distraught surrogate daughter.

"What happened?" Nightcrawler volunteers to open the floodgates. Bobby hopes Jubilee and Kitty defer to Rogue, or this could take a while.

"It was insane." Rogue offers.

"Total chaos, like, laser beams flying past my head. Walls just crumbling. And this guy could, like, make earthquakes…" Kitty points to Richter, finished. Everyone looks around the room, wondering why Jubilee hasn't become a babbling runaway train. She seems to still be struggling to find the words.

"It was, like, um, kind of like…_that._" They turn to face the television.

"…you can see the devastation behind me, as witnesses recall a wolf-like creature with blue fur. Authorities are still trying to figure out…" A news reporter's voice describes the scene. The young mutant known as Frequency had stopped blinking to change the channels when the Professor approached. Suburban chaos reflects off his glasses as they all watch – none more carefully than Xavier.

"No word on whether this creature, already blamed for cutting a swath of destruction through much of the county, could possibly be implicated in the suspected kidnapping of esteemed Dr. Hank McCoy – missing and presumed dead after his house was reduced to skeletal mass…"

"Hank?" They all turn to face the Professor, silent with interest in his fascination with the report.

"The visions. Not psychic phenomenon, but…outcomes? The future?" Xavier pauses in shock, and then repeats the question with pain in his voice. "The future?" Piecing together the current events, his history with his colleague, and the myriad problems confronting them, Xavier is a statue. Finally, he makes a decision.

"We have work to do, and everyone will have to play a part."

They move in closer now, demonstrating their commitment to him and his cause. He continues.

"Storm, Scott is in trouble." Ororo begins to question him, and stops to look at Nightcrawler. She remembers the most powerful mind on the planet, assisted by Cerebro, is not often wrong. She remembers her faith in him.

"Take Kurt and the jet, and start your search at Alkali." Wolverine winces at the mention of the lake. It had given him enough memories for a lifetime. Xavier ripples the image sternly.

"Wolverine. You, Rogue, and Iceman will try to locate this young 'angel.' I have a feeling this winged mutant has seen firsthand what Trask is willing to do. If Trask is at the beck and call of some higher power, if he has the full support of the government in spite of his atrocities, we have to know. He may be able to help us."

"What am I supposed to do, sit on a bench and throw breadcrumbs 'til he shows up?"

"Your sarcasm not withstanding, yes. I was able to feed a rough sketch of his signature to Cerebro. He seems to keep returning to a particular park, perhaps to hide. I'll feed you the coordinates on the NAV computer in the truck."

"What are we to do Professor?" Peter knows the answer already, and it was beginning to wear thin.

"If Stryker taught us anything, it's that we are vulnerable at home – especially now. The security systems implemented by young Forge provide some measure of protection, but with the rest of us gone..." He looks at the smaller mutants, timid little children struggling to understand their place in this mad, violent world. He turns to his rock.

"I need you, Jubilee, and Kitty to protect the children. We…We don't know how far Trask is willing to go."

"Where will you go Professor?" Xavier looks at Kitty. Saying nothing, he retrieves a volume from the den's bookcase. His reply to her comes as he begins scanning the pages for meaningful passages.

"To an old friend, Ms. Pryde. To show him it's never too late to go back to school."

* * *

"The patient is recovering nicely." 

"Excellent. I expect we'll have 'cleared the fog' away completely for him before the final strike." Magneto toys with a small figurine. His amusement fades, and the pewter statuette falls to the table, where it implodes to a perfect sphere, before burping into a puddle.

"What else did you learn?"

"The complex is large enough to be producing the sentries, but I couldn't find any trace of the drug - or Adler."

"He must be manning _that_ operation completely out of the 'cure' facility. I suggest you have a change of heart, my dear. And consider the error of your mutant ways." She nods at the irony in his voice, and makes plans to attend the medical facility. Somewhere, a wrecking ball shakes the entire fortress to the foundation…

Marko had long since abandoned the bed, choosing instead to pace the floors with such ruthlessness that Pyro feared his shoes would leave etching in the floor. Not a fan of silence or waiting, the young one had tried to strike up a conversation.

"So. You knew Xavier, huh? Uh ­- what was he like as a kid?" The behemoth thought better of flattening the child. He tried instead to answer.

"He was weak. An obedient schoolboy, nose in all sorts of books. Books he thought held all the answers. The old man would use those books to beat us, saying he could help teach us more than books. Dear Charles couldn't think of a way to stop him. And later, in his little chair, when the soldiers took me away, he proved to be a traitor too." Pyro nodded. He honestly tried to pick up on the most innocuous words, to add his 'two-cents' worth to make it _feel_ like a conversation.

"Hm. Schoolboy. That figures. All the books he keeps, the constant history lessons, speeches, the mansion turned into a school…." It had not gone unnoticed.

"School?" He brings himself to bear on Pyro. The latter swallows hard. "WHAT SCHOOL?"

Magneto has just finished instructing Mystique. Walls vibrate with the sound of concrete and iron colliding with sheer barbarism and velocity. There is silence. Minutes later, a sheepish Pyro rounds the corner, stepping over some rubble, in a death march, to report. He is covered in dust. He braces himself.

"We…may have a problem."

* * *

Bolivar Trask is taking time to admire some artwork on his wall. He has amassed quite a collection over the years, and finds some inspiration in the use of various materials to construct something entirely other – like the future he is trying to build now. Pausing at length on his favorite woodcut print, he orbits the room to meet the perturbed countenance of the agent before him. 

"And production was not affected?"

"Correct."

"Our other three guests were not removed?"

"No sir."

"Then explain to me, Jeffrey, how it is you are standing before me here, when you should be overseeing the reprogramming process." Jeffrey's eyes dart from the print on the wall to his employer.

"But sir, I…"

"Come here, Jeffrey." Trask leads the bewildered agent to a display mounted on his desk. The previous night's events unfold in living color, down to Mystique's liberation of Cain Marko, and the wake of corpses which resulted.

"This is my favorite part. Notice how she scans for cameras. Not doing her homework on translucent metal. Sloppy. Arrogant. Weak." Jeffrey is perplexed, but resigned to silence. Trask turns to face him once more.

"As I thought I made clear, I fully expected this polymorph to breach security. I designed the security _so that_ she could breach it."

"But, why?"

"Because I have to know, Jeffrey. I have to know what these mutants are made of. She, and the one she works for. Now. Please tell me you replaced the guard's spray with the tracer chemical, as I instructed." The scene repeats itself on the monitor below; the poor fool driven into the wall, following the ineffectiveness of what he thought was heavy mace, laced with chloroform. Jeffrey nods the affirmative.

"Good. When she returns, we will be ready. And then we'll tempt her master to follow." Jeffrey makes for the door, but is still mesmerized by the artwork.

"It's fascinating, isn't it? A masterpiece. You can feel the tension of the approaching storm."

"A tad morbid, don't you think, sir."

"Morbid? No. Realistic, Jeffrey. A not too subtle reminder that change is violent. In all we are doing, Jeffrey, we are taking pains to make such changes."

Once he is sure Trask is finished, Jeffrey dismisses himself.

"I'll get back to the master computer, sir. The flight-capable batch is almost complete. Are those coordinates still accurate for our…winged target?" His employer nods in agreement. Jeffrey closes the door. Trask looks back at the woodcut, and the terror it depicts.

"'Mutants?'" There is question in his voice. He answers it himself. "Crimes. And crimes against evolution cannot be tolerated."

* * *

Ten thousand feet over Canada, the air is cold, and dropping – and this inside the cabin of the rushing jet. The trek to Alkali Lake has the solemn cadence of a funeral. Ororo Munroe remembers what they lost here. Kurt Wagner reminds her of what they gained. 

"It hurts me to see that same sad face, Frau Munroe." She smiles, brought back to her old discussion with him, concerning the motivating power of faith.

"I know we'll find him, Kurt. The pain is in the waiting." His addendum fails to reassure her.

"Der Professor would not have sent us if he did not think we could help." Storm laughs a little. She always knew when Nightcrawler was saying quiet prayers to himself, in his native German. He needed a few words before he could speak in English again. But the smile soon fades.

"If he thought we could help," she repeats. "Kurt. What if the Professor is wrong?"

"Wrong?"

"He spoke to me about….Jean. About how he wonders if it affected him more than he first realized. How it's still affecting him. What if….What if the Professor had grown so accustomed to Jean's abilities complementing his own, that his own abilities…atrophied, somehow?" Kurt ponders this a moment.

"What effects…has he been feeling?"

"Dreams, visions. Scenes of pain. Fire. He…"

"Fire?"

"You've been having them too?" She pauses in shock. Earlier, she could not bring herself to share this with Xavier, for he may have thought she was trying to hard to empathize. But now, in light of Kurt's confession, she remembers what the Professor had said. About others having dreams. 'No. Not _just_ Logan.' Nightcrawler remembers.

"Though I only knew her for a short while, I sensed the lack of confidence the Professor would later spoke of. It was stronger after she read my mind, to learn Stryker's location. Jean had the ability to enter minds." Kurt clutches his rosary in pause.

"Fraulein. The Professor and Jean are telepaths. They read minds. They enter minds. Perhaps the reason we still have Jean in our hearts," Kurt turns to face her, "is because she's still in our heads." A moment's recognition is interrupted by the blaring signal of an approaching craft.

* * *

It is a difficult thing to gauge the past. Science has certainly made strides in dating objects, piecing together logical events from historic events. But truly seeing what happened, say, at a particular spot in time is still a cause for St. Jude to embrace. Professor Xavier had been to the outline of beams and mess of drywall that had been Hank McCoy's home. Any residual psychic energy was not enough per se, to develop a clear picture. But the acuity of a detective was enough to have uncovered something. The literary quotes (with which Hank always tattooed his workspace in stressful times) and the utter lack of refreshment (either in the workplace or refrigerator, for that matter) spoke volumes. McCoy had been feverishly at work. Something had been consuming him from within. The closet had been the final clue. Or that it had been used. 

Dr. Hank McCoy, the brilliant scientist and former mutant spokesman, had long been hailed a medical miracle for his brain. What he was not, however, was organized. Xavier smirked as he had recalled the hours at work with Hank. Not discovering, not calculating, not even writing. Charles relived the time spent cleaning up the area _around_ Hank in hopes of finding some usable data. At play in the field of science, Hank McCoy left a quite literal paper trail. It was only when Hank was truly pressed for time, completely against the wall, that he was able to clean the lab around him, in hopes that the order he enforced upon the material world would be absorbed, through osmosis, to his famous brain. Xavier had instinctively made for the closet. It was there he found the shoes.

The Professor hurt a little at this discovery. Hank had never accepted his abnormality, even when Xavier had offered the examination of his condition. All evidence had suggested that McCoy's gifted cerebrum had been a by-product of his mutation. Charles had implored him to abandon the reckless pursuit of a 'cure' for his perceived deformity, fearing grievous side effects from constant chemical ingestion. A once prized laboratory laid waste told Xavier all he needed to know. Hank had never learned. And what had it cost him?

_I'm coming back to you, Charles. I'm coming back to you, Professor. Why didn't you help me? You could have helped me! _

A flash of light, a black out, and he is back in the car. The pain of the present dilemma had Xavier driving desperately about the community. Pretty much omnipresent destruction meant no clear sign of Hank's direction, or his actual whereabouts. Clutching the volume he had selected from the mansion's study, Charles has a premonition - or a recollection. He is so confused by his constant dreams and visions, he is not quite sure what to call it. But his driver is given a course, and she obeys.

Wolverine had, after the Stryker fiasco, insisted on a personal bodyguard. _Scott won't always be there to wheel you around_, he had said. It had proved to be prophetic. A mutant watchdog? Xavier thought it crude, feeling like he was taking advantage of a mutant as the colonel had. But as Logan had pointed out, the difference would be in the choice. She would be a hired assassin, well paid, working completely under her own free will. And Charles took some comfort, knowing so dangerous an individual would be under his watchful eye, instead of running amok in Europe. Truthfully, it was a semblance of the way he felt about Logan. He hoped to pacify their minds, and as with Wolverine, to train them to never intentionally use their killer instincts. If her driving was any indication, he may yet fail at that task.

Hank had said this was, at one time, a community church. But populations shift, move outward. Their values alter as they expand. Old morals decay - or evolve, depending on one's view. What is certain is that the large steeple no longer houses a bell, and every winter the local acting troupe puts on a different Shakespearean performance to warm the hearts of the townspeople. Before the car has stopped, Xavier knows he is right. In the back of the specially equipped van, he crawls into his hover-seat. It leads him into the cool night air.

With his telekinesis, Charles switches on the lights. The chapel had been gutted to make ample room for stage pieces. Even so, much of the steeple remains draped in darkness.

"Come out old friend. You're better than this." No movement.

"I had…I had really hoped to have this conversation with you at a better time, Hank. When you weren't feeling so…" Xavier measures his words carefully, "…despondent." There is a slight shuffle from above.

"You know you're more than just you're appearance, Doctor. You always have been. You have the awards to tell you that. You don't believe me? Fine. Listen what someone else has to say." The professor straightens his back, clearing the airflow and freeing his lungs. The exquisite practice of his early twenties begins to show in thought and deed. He prays the speech will follow.

"God, I hope I remember how to do this…

'_It is the mind that makes the body rich; and as the sun breaks through the darkest clouds, so honor peereth in the meanest habit.'_

All that is you, is still in there, Dr. McCoy." Something clearly begins to stir in the tower, and Xavier ascends the stage to better project his voice. It provides him the first glimpse of what Dr. Hank McCoy has become, a blue-furred wolf which is slowly picking its footholds to descend the tower. In spite of this, Charles has no difficulty continuing.

"You and I can fight it Hank - together…_'We few, we happy few, we band of brothers.'_ I know you can overcome this. Grow up, McCoy," a fatherly sternness in his voice, "because your mutant brethren are waiting for you. They need your voice, Hank. Your confident voice, your ideas, can lift them. I…I cannot do it alone. I need your help. I need your mind." The blue ball of fur that is Hank McCoy is yards away, suspended upside down. Hanging from his prehensile feet on a beam which mounts the stage lights, he has but to jump down to join Xavier.

"It reminds me, Hank, of the Eastern religions. How one must cast off the mantle of the physical form, to find true enlightenment within. It can be a frightening journey, a leap of faith. But you must overcome the fear. You must make the leap, Doctor. Erase your doubt.

'_Our doubts are traitors,  
And make us lose the good we oft might win…'" _Xavier's quote is finished for him.

"'…_By fearing to attempt_…' Hello, Charles."

"Hello old friend. I am so truly glad you could join me, Dr. Hank McCoy."

* * *

"That pigeon," Bobby thought aloud with some amusement, "is not long for this world." 

Brooding in his usual way, Wolverine had apparently been easily mistaken for a statue. His snarl frightens the bird to flight.

"Let's hope this new guy is more polite." Rogue's smile brings Logan back to the task at hand, and a few cupped handfuls of water minimize the damage. He is no less tired of waiting, however.

"Well, we could start climbing trees to find his nest."

"I'm still pretty partial to the breadcrumb idea." It's Bobby's turn to fall silent now, as Logan and Rogue enjoy their increasingly rare time together. That quiet reflection proves to be brief.

It begins innocently enough, a sound not unlike a passing plane. But it does not stop. It does not fade. On the contrary, it is getting louder. Rogue and Iceman take to some brush at Wolverine's command – he had begun to discriminate multiple signals within the first seconds. From the relative insecurity of their leafy encampment, the three X-men reel.

The first three touch down in unison, followed by two more on either flank. Rogue is amazed at their size, evident from the craters of impact they leave with each elephant step. They are not the maneuverable street models – these are the real thing. Wolverine squints while observing their movements in relation to one another, trying to detect a pattern of behavior, or a weakness. The robots had killed many mutants. He will not see them kill again. Bobby tries to show his bravery by coming up from his crouch position. Logan would have stopped him, if he thought it would matter. The lead Sentinel interpolates the data on-scene.

" Identified: mutant genome. Quantity: four. Primary objective: apprehend flying mutant. Secondary objective: minimal civilian casualties. Civilians present: 0. Acceptable collateral damage: 75" Bobby does some quick math.

"Four?" Rogue does not care about the totals, just an answer.

"We're in the '75' aren't we?" She asks. Wolverine responds.

"Not if he's counting the pigeons. Come on!"

Interpreting their movement as hostile, the sentinels approach. The larger models seem more lethargic, at least to Rogue. She dodges their clenched fists, which rain down like hammers, with little effort. Not to be outdone, Iceman leaps into the battle. He freezes the feet and legs of the nearest Sentinel, at which the robot splinters at the waist from forward motion. Its head is crushed from impact. Wolverine is able to push him away before the boy is flattened. Using trees for cover, then for altitude, the hunter picks one of the flanking robots. A murderous howl is the death toll for the sentry, as metal blades driven into its shoulder provide Wolverine the leverage to swipe its head cleanly off.

Rogue notices a Sentinel, apart from the others. It makes a mad lunge at a seemingly vacant tree. A fantastic flap of wings propels Warren Worthington into the air, evading the lethal attack, but announcing him to the two other able sentries that would do him harm. If they wanted him alive, the robots were doing a fairly clumsy job of it.

"Mutant hostilities: acknowledged. Threat level: raised. Secondary objective: eliminate mutant transgressors."

"Hey. We're moving up in the countdown." Bobby's humor if unchecked, could end them all.

"Number one with a bullet, kid. LOOK OUT!" Wolverine's warning comes too late as a Sentinel grabs Iceman. He begins to freeze the offending appendage, but the robot's free hand rises to Bobby's head, releasing an orange mist. His whole torso is engulfed in gas. Coughing and wheezing until the vapor has cleared, Bobby is able to finish the mummification of the Sentinel. The hand holding him breaks, dropping him to the ground where he lies unconscious.

"No. NO!" Wolverine betrays his true feelings for his fallen comrade, amplified by blind rage. Rogue rushes to Bobby's aid, supporting his head with her gloved hand as she listens intently for the sound of breathing. She is only marginally relieved. Warren swoops in to save her from a burst of gas that paints her previous location.

Wound into a tight ball, the tank that Wolverine has become charges the analytical Sentinel. His desire to attack supersedes any self preservation, and he is given a two-handed dousing of the orange fog before leaping headlong into the chest of the sentinel. He slashes repeatedly, riding the robot to the ground as it crashes on its back. Warren leaves Rogue to bring Iceman out of the field. It is a selfless but costly act. With Wolverine in an infectious rage, hashing at an already-dispatched robot, the final Sentinel makes a last battlefield analysis.

"Threat ratio: 4 over 1. Deactivation: imminent. Primary objective: inflict maximum mutant casualties." Swatting Warren away like a fly, the sentry approaches Rogue and Bobby. Circuits begin to buzz with the incantations of a self-destruct sequence. Exploding in a cloud of orange fumes that envelope Rogue and Bobby, the last Sentinel infects and re-infects its chosen targets. Worthington looks with trepidation, but the nonetheless is prepared to enter the haze to save them. He's stopped by Logan.

"I'll handle this. I've got other plans for you, Bub." He enters the cloud to drag Bobby and Rogue clear.

"Look man, I want no part of this. I stayed to help since they were after me. Now I'm out of here…"

"Kid, I need time to heal, and I ain't got the strength to carry those two to the truck. You are going to help me get them to the truck, and then you're going to drive us home."

"Or else WHAT?" Logan gives pause. Wolverine replies.

"Or I'm going to clip off your damn wings." Warren looks at him with apathy.

"Go ahead. You'll be doing me a favor."

_Snikt!_

"Did I mention I'll be going through your chest to do it?" He waves the claws menacingly in Worthington's direction. The latter makes the right decision.

"Um. I'll get the girl in the truck."

* * *

Trask gives a chuckle as he observes the advancing line. News apparently did not travel very fast in the mutant community, and they were still funneling in to get their 'cure.' One eager mutant in particular is setting off the beacon on his finally tuned, chemically based tracking system. 

"Clever girl." He makes the call to security downstairs. The directions are clear, concise, and adamant. "The blue mutant, white hair, white…er….let's call it negligee. Take her quietly, using the tablet. Do it…now."

Mystique tried her best to mask a scowl of disdain for these traitorous mutants. The line was advancing fairly quickly, and occasionally another satisfied customer leaves the facility. She approaches the last line of security. Hide in plain sight was an adage proving to be useful.

"Okay, Miss. We'll need a photo over here. That's….good. Alright, if you'll sign here for the medical waiver… Great, here's your copy. Thank you. That gentleman right over there will give you a ticket for the advanced waiting room. No, _that_ gentleman in the lab coat. Thanks." Mystique greets the man, and reaches for the ticket stub. She will have no further recollection for some time. Her fingers come into contact with the chemically-laced tablet beneath the stub, and she falls unconscious. A security guard with impeccable timing catches her well before the floor.

"Oh dear, we have another one afraid of needles. Would you be so kind as to escort her to the back room? We have some smelling salts ready, and then we'll be able to administer the medication via skin patch. Thank you…Next!"

Mystique wakes up in an apparent dark coffin, her arms and legs held fast by what feels like metal bars. She measures her breathing carefully in the total darkness.

"We meet in person at last." She sickens at his voice.

"Trask…" Noting a distinct echo in her own voice, she halts.

"For…today. Tomorrow, I'll be known as the world's greatest emancipator. Or the greatest living surgeon, trimming away a persistent cancer." Intense white light washes over her, allowing a more exact portrait of her predicament.

The coffin is in fact a compartment, not unlike a medical CAT scan device. Mystique is aware of wires attached to her head, her arms, as though her entire body were under surveillance. She will not be someone's project.

"You've been giving a very controlled dose of suppressant, mutant. Don't bother trying to morph you're way out. I'm glad you and your employer have taken so keen an interest in my operation. I trust the schematics led him to me?" He almost seemed to sense what she was thinking…

"So it's mind control then?"

"Attempts at control are too often the failing of man. I prefer to think of it in its…cleansing aspect." She tries to buy herself time. The device initiates, her surroundings spin around her, else she is rotating at her spine. Disorientation and the onset of various injections and electrical currents prevent her from making the distinction. Mystique has not truly been caged for some time. The psychological effects are extreme.

"What do you want?" She pleads. Trask is at a monitor now, viewing the bustling men in lab coats, administering his drug to the desperate mutant populace.

"Look at them down there. The scuffling, huddled masses. Confused of who they are. Of what they are. Poisoning a world that hates and fears them. They are an abomination, which must be wiped off the face of the earth."

"They have a right to live...!"

"They have wasted that right! But there are still a few. You, my dear. And him. Perhaps I can make use of you. To destroy the rest."

Her screams disturb the guards waiting outside, who only seem to regain composure when the door closes. Jeffrey forms up to Trask's side.

"It's not that I hate to see this, sir, but are you sure this is a good idea? We have records of her abilities. And _his_. If the brainwashing doesn't work…"

"Over the years, I have accumulated centuries of knowledge in techniques of torture and control. Mankind's every crowning achievement is at work on her, now. History's greatest atrocities, science's most perverse concoctions. She will do what I want, and we'll have them both."

"It must be rewarding to have access to so much collected research."

"Yes. But research is no match for experience."

Mystique's whole world spins within her head. She will wail for hours.

* * *

"Where did you learn to draw like that?" 

"In my country, after working in the fields all day, scrounging enough that you'll have something left over after the government takes their 'fair share' – at the end of the day, all you can lift is a pencil." He smiles, masking the sorrow at the mention of his homeland. She smiles back, having been at Peter's side the better part of an hour, in admiration of his muscles as much as his sketches.

"My sister would watch me for hours as well. We had very little light back home, and she'd seek out company in the darkness." Peter gives her the piece of paper, and she thanks him. "You remind me of her, watching me like this. Here. He will keep you company in the darkness." Kitty suppresses a frown. _Sister_. It is not the analogy she wanted. Her head drops a little, gazing at the drawing Peter has given her. A little green dragon flutters in the air like an over-weight butterfly, trailing obediently behind her loving caricature. It is warming enough that the frustration ebbs.

"Well. Time to check the…"

All the children peak out there rooms at the rumbling. Jubilee rejoins Kitty and Colossus in the study, having left them the hour before to facilitate Ms. Pryde's 'quiet time' with Peter, who takes command.

"Jubilee, get the children to sublevels. If the security systems fail, they can get out through the tunnel system." The thunderous drumming is ever closer.

"What about you?"

"We will delay…whatever is coming." Kitty and Peter stand at ready in the grand foyer of the mansion. Jubilee cajoles the terrified little ones towards the safety of the mansions hidden sublevels, but even as she does, some of the more confident students begin to line the walls. Julio Richter and his friend are among them.

"Hey Maximoff. Think it's more robots tailing us?"

"Nah. They aren't that fast."

A quarter of the front wall disintegrates with a cloud of dust, rubble and splinters lining either side of what had been the entranceway. Colossus powers up in time for Kitty to take refuge - behind him she avoids the shrapnel. As the haze of debris settles, two angry eyes behind a curious bowl-shaped helmet announce the arrival of Cain Marko.

"At least he used the door." Jubilee notes, as she joins her friends. A few little ones peer around the corner to watch the scene unfold.

"WHERE ARE YOU, CHARLES?" …Colossus assumes a boxer's stance… "COME OUT AND GREET YOUR LONG LOST BROTHER!" The students look amongst themselves in disbelief. Xavier's rock replies, giving his best authoritative intonation, but even he seems unsure, as he sizes up the hulking, leather clad war hammer facing them. Crimped biker chains adorn his entire body, so much that if he were to curl up in a ball, he would resemble a monster-truck snow tire. He looks condescendingly at the students.

"Where is Xavier little ones?"

"The Professor is not available right now."

"His office hours _were_ on the door…Ouch!" Jubilee is slapped by Kitty for her lack of appreciation for the task at hand.

"Then I guess, for now, my business is with you." Colossus nods in agreement. The students watch, and wait. Two goliaths eyeball each other.

It is Rasputin who pulls the trigger first, winding up for a punch that catches his opponent squarely on the jaw. Marko turns a cheek as though a woman had slapped his face. He smiles. Peter is confused. Then, he is airborne. Kitty summons her mutant power, phasing to a translucent state, just in time to avoid the hurling metal projectile that passes through her, impacts with the wall behind, and scatters the children like ants. She looks back to her fallen friend, and then she looks forward at the now charging Marko.

"I think we have a problem."

* * *

Something with definite shape, something metallic, and something moving really fast – that was the laundry list based on the data that Storm was reading off the radar. It turns out to be one out of three, as she and Kurt experience. The streaking, amorphous force—aglow with innumerable shades of yellow, orange, red—glides past them with a roar that they feel, more than hear. And if that is the case, it is probably due to the other signals they are receiving in non-traditional auditory response. They are drawn to it. 

At once the images flood them. Kurt in the circus, in Stryker's lab, in the mansion he helps the students. Storm relives a tragic memory, her parents killed in a fiery accident, as she falls to her knees, in the streets that would prove to wean her. She sees herself picking pockets to survive, and later bringing rains to sprout the villagers' crops in some far away continent. As the visions progress, Ororo can no longer control herself. The walls of the jet cabin seem to be closing. Her breathing is rapid, frantic. Only through Kurt's shaking her like mad does she regain state of mind. Wagner calms as his friend is noticeably aware.

"Are you alright?" She asks, thinking of her team and mission first.

"Yes. It was…The visions were so real. And it seemed to…call to us. Should we follow it? Surely the Professor will want to know about this…" He stops, and she soon joins him in silent wonder. The entity appeared to be rocketing towards space. It would prove difficult to follow…

"We can't. I think we've found our man."

The jet had followed its calculated navigational pattern, despite their own mental meanderings. Hovering in a search pattern low to the ground, they have cleared a final drift of snow, to reach the clearing below them. The gray winter landscape howls. An entire barren basin opens to them, smoking as if slowly roasted by some unknown sun. At the center of the bowl, adorned with the shards of his compromised boat, Scott Summers lays unconscious.

"Professor, we have located Cyclops. Professor, do you copy? I can't get a hold of him, Kurt. It's like…the mansion isn't there."

"We'll just have to get Herr Summers on board and get back. And hope everyone is alright."

"Like the mansion…isn't there…" Storm repeats.

Kurt and Ororo now realize the magnitude of the mystery the landscape offers them. The drift they cleared to find Scott featured, though dilapidated now, the remains of a makeshift dock, perhaps used by local Eskimo fishermen. As they take in the empty expanse, they realize Alkali Lake has been completely evaporated.

* * *

"This waiting around is getting lame. Do we ever actually get to impose this New World Order, or just talk about it…?" Erik Lensher gives the frustrated boy's comments some thought. 

"For once, my impetuous Pyro, I agree with you. I forgave Mr. Marko his impulsive departure, because it played into my hands. He will give the young fools at Xavier's something to think about. That will keep Charles occupied. But Mystique is usually more…punctual. Ah." He looks up at the incoming video message on his laptop computer screen. Pyro comes over to hear her report.

"My dear, we were just talking about you. Are we fully informed of Trask's activities?"

"Wait a minute. Why isn't she…blue?" He is disquieted at Pyro's atypical acuity.

"Mystique, why are you…?"

"Cured. I'm cured. Erik, I…never really thought that…So many of them, so many awkward individuals – like me. We were all together, we could be…free."

"This had better be your idea of a joke, my lady." Pyro takes note that Magneto is not laughing. He begins to back away. "You've seen the news. You know what he's doing. You know the next step." He is trembling with rage.

"Erik. It works. It really works. We're free. Finally free…all of us"

"A Delilah in our midst." Lensher scowls. "Very well. I shall have to pay a visit…to all of you…"

His patience lasts long enough to confirm the trace. Pyro has already taken cover. Fragments of the ceiling begin to rain down, as metal peels, like banana skins, off of the walls. The laptop shatters on the floor. The dark iron table implodes, like a black hole, into a perfect metal sphere the size of a beach ball. It suddenly jerks, firing away from him like a giant bullet, penetrating the roof to reveal the night sky. A magnetic field encases him. Pyro joins the charged bubble, smiling. Action at last.

"We'll collect Mr. Marko, now. We are ready."

"At the mansion? What about Professor Xavier?" Magneto points to Pyro's newly designed battle helmet.

"If he's there, he's of no concern to us. His way has passed. The unstoppable juggernaut I have unleashed upon his school has planted the seeds of doubt. It's time to see if those students have finally learned something after all." Pyro surveys the damage from the sky, as the entire fortress buries itself under the rocks of its foundation.

"So much for another stronghold."

Magneto, his arms crossed as they hurtle through space, replies.

"It's time I made my fortress the world."

* * *

Instinctively, he tosses a broom into the closet. Xavier's look of disbelief twists to laughter as the closet door falls off, the upper shelf drops to the floor, and finally the entire wall faints in the direction opposite him. 

"I truly have made a mess of things this time, haven't I?" Hank McCoy's shoulders drop to a more substantial slouch. "Do you really think we'll find anything of use here, Charles?"

"Someone out there is robbing us of our unique gifts, Hank. You sought to remove them yourself, in a way. If the concoction you created caused your…secondary mutation, then it stands to reason it may have the power to invigorate the mutant gene itself."

"That's brilliant, Charles. I'm glad I thought of it." He smiles to himself, then returns to concern. "Are you sure about this? I'm not even sure I can duplicate the formula." Hank reaches down to pick up another stray sheet of paper, the scribbles blurred with time and moisture.

"If anyone can do it, it's you. We simply don't have another option."

"I'll do my best. I just hope it's enough. Otherwise…." McCoy spares a glance at his reflection in the shard of glass on the ground, and points to himself. "I hope you've stocked up on shaving cream." A few more vials, some scattered notes, and they are off towards the mansion.

'_Professor, forgive me. I'm coming'…Snow, a jet – the X-Jet – Kurt and Ororo in distress. 'Scott. Where is Scott?' Wolverine, striking a dark figure down, in cold blood. An empty schoolyard. Buildings in flames. Flames._

"I was truly sorry to hear…what happened to Jean." It serves to wake Xavier from another blackout.

"She sacrificed herself to save us, Hank. Jean made her choice."

"The girl picked a hell of a time to grow up on you, Charles." McCoy gives the Professor a look, eliciting deeper conversation. "You weren't ready yourself, were you?"

"No. I told myself it was what I wanted. That I had tried to teach them all to be their own men…and women. But when graduation came, when she had made her choice, I just couldn't let go. It's not that I doubt them…"

"The fault lies not with the student, but with the teacher, eh Charles? You can't really believe that. Their choices will have consequences. It won't always be pretty." The Professor lets it sink in, and sighs.

"Jean will always be missed. She did what she thought was right. She is always in our minds."

At this, McCoy gives a polite chuckle. "Yes, well, next to you, that always was her special gift, Charles."

Something in Hank's observation leaves Xavier cold for the return home.

* * *

"And your quite certain he's nowhere on the facility grounds?" A voice replies on the radio. 

"We checked thoroughly with the device you provided, sir. No trace of him."

"Very well. Return to your posts and prepare for our guests. We'll send a Sentinel with the appropriate bio-signature to retrieve the good doctor…unless…" Trask turns to his new accomplice; she smiles at the sight of the thinning herd of mutants, awaiting their inoculations. Once they had lined up for a cure to their special condition, now they fear for their lives, bleeding sickly metallic death from circuit board wounds no modern science understands. Her blue skin crawls in the dimmed light of his observatory. She had been set free from such concerns.

"It seems our Dr. Adler is having a crisis of conscience. Apparently, he has begun seeing the true effects of our cure. He may eventually try to contact Xavier. _If_ Lensher doesn't find him, and tear him apart first. Excellent." It would be a grander meeting after all. "I wonder if you would be so kind, my dear."

She nods. In the piles of bodies below, someone groans.

The note of that wail is held, in perfect tune, miles away in New York. Angel has wings tied behind him, covered with a coat. The car seat has been set to fully reclining position, so that the visual effect is of a perfectly normal, chiseled young man driving a truck – with his jacket resting on the seat. Worthington notes the worsening condition of his new friends. They are moaning in pain, but he can see their eyes. So human.

And according to the NAV computer directing the truck's course, so many miles to go before the mansion.

* * *

"I didn't know robots could sweat, little man. I was hoping you'd be stronger than Xavier. But at least you didn't abandon me." 

"What…What are you talking about?" Colossus wipes off the offending bead of sweat, squaring his exhausted body with his fresh opponent. Kitty is helping Jubilee off the floor. The smallest children have long since fled through the tunnels. A select few remain to listen. Xavier's School for the Gifted is in shambles.

"So, Charlie never told you how he left me. How he let the soldiers take me away. How I lived for years in a tomb. He left me. Left me for DEAD!" He drives a fist to the ground, shaking the mansion. That, no doubt, was for the benefit of the children hidden safely below, cowering in fear. Strangely, the reverberation does not stop. The chandelier above, miraculously secure in light of the war below, begins spinning uncontrollably.

"You lie. The Professor would never…"

"I can assure you, young man, that he has. You may ask him very shortly." The Master of Magnetism, in the impregnable womb of his field of energy, hovers above them all. Students, for whom he previously existed as only hearsay, marvel at his presence. Remembering a danger room scenario, Peter returns his form to flesh. Kitty and Jubilee form up behind him, with Richter and Maximoff just feet away. Arty and Frequency begin to come out from the rubble. They soon think better of leaving their camouflage, and return to their hiding space behind an overturned couch.

From Xavier's view in the van, his dream is on fire. Just ahead, the truck in which Wolverine's team departed pulls to a stop in the driveway. He senses pain and delirium within the vehicle. The mansion is at least a quarter less massive, with unknown casualties within, but the Professor somehow senses the importance of their mysterious cargo in the truck. Charles' driver brings the van in behind it. The lack of immediate movement suggests difficulty, so the Professor probes the minds inside.

"Hank..." The old friends move to action. Xavier's driver helps him to his hover-seat.

"My, my…what is that?" Hank's good cheer is gone, Dr. McCoy emerges. "I've never seen wounds like this before…Charles." Xavier comes over.

"My God. What happened?" Angel has freed his wings. At their vast span, McCoy gives pause in admiration. The mutant gene, an unpredictable catalyst of change, was capable of extraordinary things. It had given this man a celestial beauty. It had given him... His fairy tales return to him, his readings of Hugo.

"The robot patrols came. They were meant for me. They…they helped me."

"It's what we do. Let's pray it won't cost them their lives. Hank…"

"I know, Professor. We're out of time. I'll get to work right away. _If_ there's a lab left in which to work…" Xavier nods with respect to the damage.

"The truly vital work I do is housed below…"

"That's strange…" Xavier's chauffeur interrupts the thought. He turns to acknowledge her.

"Ms. Braddock, what is it?"

"My watch has stopped." Her watch is Swiss - they are not famous for stopping. Xavier looks at the destruction of the mansion.

"Oh no - Erik." Betsy leads the others to an alternate entry for the sublevels, with Beast heaving Wolverine and Iceman, and Angel supporting Rogue. All three infected X-men are unconscious. Xavier enters the beleaguered mansion.

"Charles, so good of you to join us at last." Juggernaut turns, smiling at the name. Xavier does not recognize him at first.

"Was this really necessary, Erik?"

"Oh, it wasn't me, Charles. Don't you remember your dear brother?" The Professor scans the being again.

"I'm hurt, Charles. DON'T YOU REMEMBER ME?" His voice helps, but the mad eyes spell it out at last.

"Cain. Is it really you?"

"Quite, Charles. But I can see how you wouldn't recognize me. I haven't been getting much sun." Xavier's head bows in shame. The children begin to see it.

"Old friend, I've just been explaining to your students how you left poor Mr. Marko all alone. How first Stryker, then Trask's scientist tested on him. Like an animal. And all the while, you never bothered to check on him. We couldn't figure out why." Xavier is nervous. Some children look like they are about to cry from the burden. Magneto takes full advantage of the silence.

"You see now, how he would have you - a silent, weak, and obedient dog. There is a man out there breeding machines of death, disease. He has singled out our race. And Charles Xavier would have you smile and take it on your knees. I am going to fight, to end their oppression. I am going," he looks at Charles, "to make a change. Anyone is free to follow me" He gives the signal, and Pyro leaves first.

There is silence. Xavier says nothing, his eyes to the ground. It is more than they can bear. Peter leaves first, giving a last look over his shoulder resembling sadness and betrayal. Richter and Maximoff follow, as a few lesser mutants make their way out the door. Cain Marko is reluctant to follow. Arty and Frequency still cower behind a couch.

"We have more pressing matters to attend to, Mr. Marko. Your traitor," he points to Charles, "is finished. Your jailer awaits." Marko reluctantly exits at last. Lensher spares a final shot at his oldest living friend.

"It's over, Charles. You've lost. The march of time is inexorable. The wheels of change are turning," he pauses to survey Xavier's new hover-seat. "But I see you've lost _your_ wheels."

The Professor sits in stunned silence. Jubilee and Kitty each lay a hand at either of his shoulders.

* * *

Turning from the monitor display on his desk, Bolivar Trask reacts in great delight at the news. 

"And you have a confirmation from our friends?"

"That's affirmative, sir. Government data, coupled with the broad-range scanner we converted for the Sentinels, indicate multiple signals in approach. Mutant genome unconfirmed, as we have some level of interference. Electro-magnetic field distorted. Point of fact, it's more or less the distortion we're tracking."

Their course should lead them to his manufacturing complex. His companion in the room is obscured from view, but notes the withering moans of the decaying mutant prisoners the screen displays.

"Jeffrey, is the final batch ready?" A response blares over the radio.

"Yes sir. The synthetics were actually hard to come by in that quantity, but we were able to manufacture a platoon with your specifications. They won't be immediately battle-ready, however."

"Our guests should be arriving shortly. Send out the older units first. Give them a false sense of security."

"Sir?"

"Do it, Jeffrey. Just be sure to maintain a defensive perimeter around the complex. I'll be making a few final arrangements, here at the lab. I want to select a few of our more 'advance stage' patients. I want…I wish to witness his most pure rage. To prove I'm making the right decision."

"Oh, there's no doubt of that sir. The mutants are filth. I'll be happy when there gone – it sickens me just to look at them. They're wrong. I feel it in my gut"

Jeffrey returns to his duties. Trask's attention returns to his seated associate.

"You've done well. Mr. Lensher has predictably gone for the Sentinel's production facility. I leave to join him there now."

"And me?"

"You will stay here, where your considerable talents will be necessary. The winged one may have seen too much. I have to be sure. But my sentries have been unable to recover this little angel by force. I think a feint may be the answer."

"As you wish."

"Yes." He smiles, sparing a glance at his favorite print on the wall. Such exquisite detail. He can almost hear the sounds, the screams. The crashing…

* * *

The unknown power which had buzzed them in mid-air would have crippling effects, as they later discovered. Scott was safely in the med-unit, unconscious, and the ship had chosen to match his inertia. It had been many bickering hours and misused tools before the jet was flying again, and a long trek over Canada to cool their heads. Kurt is thus unprepared for the response to his hailing frequency. 

"Xavier's Infirmary for the Gifted."

"Jubilee?" Storm suspects.

"Yeah." She giggles.

"We've been hailing for days. What happened?"

"It's sort of a long story. This guy comes in and he's all, 'WHERE'S XAVIER,' and we totally kick his butt, and the mansion SO looks like my room now. Then everyone's getting sick and there's people unconscious, and this angel-boy with really curly blond hair…"

Nightcrawler tries a more direct approach.

"Jubilee, where is the Professor?"

"He and this doctor named Mr. McCoy - but not like the 'he's dead Jim' guy …"

"Hank?" Storm asks.

"Yeah, that's right. Dr. Hank McCoy."

"How is he?" Ororo seems to get nostalgic.

"He's … oh, he's great. He's … actually … kind of, um, blue, now, to be honest. And furry."

Storm is confused as she looks at Nightcrawler. He reminds her of the tolerance for which they all strive.

"He sounds devilishly handsome," he remarks.

"Um…Yeah. Well, anyway he and the Professor are trying to find a cure thingy, 'cause Rogue, Bobby, and Wolvie are really sick."

"Wolverine…is sick?" Wagner can't believe it.

"Jubilee, tell them we've found Scott. He's unconscious, but alive. And we'll be there shortly."

"'Kay." She shuts off the intercom. "Jeez. Get another bed ready. We've got incoming."

Beneath the mansion, the young girl's announcement over the radio gives Hank a sarcastic smirk. It is the first attempt at levity he has made for hours, having buried himself in the urgent task of recreating the formula of his transformation. Still entrenched in a soulful melancholy, Xavier has his back to McCoy, lost in thought. Kitty observes her fallen comrades, while Warren Worthington sits crouched like a gargoyle on a stool beside them. McCoy uses an eyedropper to apply his latest attempt to the test solution. He smiles, turning to the younger mutants.

"Why don't you two go keep Jubilee company – before she converts the mansion's comm system into her own private radio station." They leave reluctantly, and he turns to Xavier.

"Charles. I think I've got something." The Professor seems to perk up at this, steering his hover-seat to face McCoy.

"I've been able to establish what the virus does. As we feared, it turns the mutant gene against the body, forcing the body to feed on itself. Effectively, the entire body's genetic structure becomes an engine furnace, fueling the disease. How it does that…is another matter."

"What do you mean?"

"I have a theory, Charles. But frankly I don't have the kind of equipment I need here, in order to paint an accurate picture. The best I could do was determine what the virus is doing in order to try to reverse the effects."

"And what did you do?" At this McCoy laments.

"Enough, I hope. I was running in circles until I realized the problem, and saw it clearly: the virus alters their genetic structure, so the virus affects all living tissue, poisoning it. To have any hope of returning the victims to…normal…I would need a sample of their DNA before they were infected, in order to give my formula a template to follow when repairing the damage. You might say, Charles, I was pulling my hair out when the solution presented itself…" Xavier understands.

"Of course. If the virus affects only living tissue, the infected victim's hair, dead cells, would still house the DNA required. Have you concocted enough for Logan and the others?" Xavier motions to the three vials mounted on Hank's workspace.

"Yes. But you understand Charles, we still don't have enough data to anticipate the side-effects. And…I'm still not sure it will work."

"We have no choice. Administer it now. If they revive, we can put them through their paces in the Danger Room, looking for negative effects. But we must build up our numbers. If what Mr. Worthington has told us is true, we have to get to those mutants in the lab. And then there's Magneto…" Beast has injected Wolverine, Rogue, and Iceman with their respective cures before Charles is finished. Jubilee's voice again rings on the loudspeaker.

"Um, Professor? Kitty and Angel are bringing down someone you should meet."

Hank's eyebrow rises in conjecture. Xavier grips the sides of his hover-seat in anticipation, floating off to the corner of the room. The door opens, and Hank McCoy receives the visitors. Angel enters first, some strange mix of distrust and reckless abandon in his face. His wings curl to reveal Kitty escorting a little Einstein. He is instantly recognizable. He introduces himself anyway.

"My name is Dr. Adler. And I need to speak with Professor Charles Xavier."

* * *

Trask has chosen the production chamber proper, a city of invention, to make his final stand. Large sewer-like grates are scattered across the floor in rows. It is a voluminous theater of industry - heavy machinery adorns the north and east walls. Endless networks of conveyor belts, containing a morbid collection of metal polymer heads, feet, and arms, circuit across them. To the west a monstrous door, entrance to the large storeroom – the enormous closet in which Trask keeps his metal soldiers. The oscillating rumble, an eerie portent which signals from the south wall, is so intense that he fully expects Cain Marko to burst through like a rocket. 

A mangled Sentinel's mass obliterates the wall, the weight of the fallen automaton coming to controlled rest just feet before him. Trask manifests some admiration for the destruction, and for the small army of mutants which Magneto has amassed at his side. Erik Lensher surveys the operation with no end of disgust.

"At last, the devil's playroom." He turns to face the architect.

"You forgot to put away some of your toys." Behind them, in the giant window that the mutant's entrance has made, a squadron of Sentinels which had been defending the factory collapses in scrap to the earth. A perfect line of acolytes fall in to order on either side him, bent on revenge. The room is trembling.

"And you've been a busy boy, Mr. Trask. Busy spreading childish lies. Lies about my associates here. Lies about our kind. Pathological lying is a disease. I think you need to be cured." Every machine in the factory buzzes in fear of death. Frameworks detach and collide in mid-air. Conveyor belts, now freed of their gears, fire like sling shots off of the walls.

"I still have a few toys left." Trask's finger finds the green button on his PDA. The remote control there concealed opens the broad doors to the storage area. A pair of orange eyes punctuates the darkness. One by one, the matinee of lights begins. With a creaking of movement that betrays their fresh entry to the world, scores of Sentinels fill the room.

"Oh Mr. Trask, do you seriously think your fragile gadgets can stop me?" Magneto extends his field, attempting to crush the drones. Nothing happens - he gives a puzzled look.

"A synthetic plastic, Mr. Lensher. Hard as steel."

Magneto takes it in stride. "Plastic, Mr. Trask? That's not environmentally friendly. I thought you were interested in saving the world?"

"From your disease, yes. I know about you, Mr. Lensher. I've researched all my possible enemies. I've seen firsthand the pox you mutants have become. At the thrill of this cure, countless freaks jumped at the chance to suppress their very nature. They don't share your 'doubly blessed' view - your 'own kind'. The world will be purged of them – all of them. And you."

A yellow button depressed, the walls become reinforced by clear plastic partitions. Before the mutants can react, geysers of orange smoke erupt from the grating in the floor. They collectively fall, some completely, while others manage to stay on one knee. For a moment, Marko seems to get smaller. Colossus is having difficulty maintaining his metal form. Magneto, protected by his field, tries to extend his power to protect his ragged army. But the damage is done. As the lingering mist which surrounds them subsides, they begin to gain back some use of their powers. Trask has distanced himself in the chaos – the Sentinels are clearly blocking any path to him.

"A regrettably large dose, I'm afraid. I'm not entirely sure what effect it may have on me. Dr. Adler, in his genuine eagerness to help, never had the opportunity to test it on 'my kind'. But I had to be sure I could stop you. I _was_ hoping to have Xavier and his circus show as well. But…"

"We will not go out on our knees." Juggernaut intones.

"To get to you myself, I will go through these machines, or die trying." Colossus threatens. Trask corrects him.

"No. You will go through these machines, _and_ die trying. You all believe you have extraordinary gifts. You see now you have wasted them." He drops the control pad in haste, exiting out a hidden, sliding door. It fizzles on the floor.

With Trask's departure, the Sentinels strike. They are considerably more agile than previous models, though no one present would attest. Richter and his friend had experience with the smaller models, and only Maximoff could relate the tale - Julio is the first to fall. Indeed, they are all too busy fighting for their lives, running about the room to evade the blasts. The intense heat of Pyro's force removes a Sentinel's arm. Colossus grabs its leg, pile driving it into the ground. Maximoff dodges various bursts, using his considerable momentum to hurl metal debris as projectile weapons. Marko lines up two Sentinels in order to mow them down like bowling pins.

Deflecting the sniper's shot intended for his head, Magneto retaliates. An entire fixture of the already incapacitated manufacturing system becomes a massive uppercut, connecting with the chin of a robot, while battering its head into the wall. He stares intently on the door from which Trask has made his exit, but another Sentinel demands his attention. Lensher catches sight of the small electronic device that lies crushed on the floor.

Outside, a visibly agitated Bolivar Trask pops a bottleful of pills. He is then able to calmly enter the car, the bottle still in his hand. Jeffrey had been holding the door for him - the ingestion of medication had not gone unnoticed.

"They fell for the trap, I take it?"

"Yes. All but Xavier's crew. Though I thought I saw some of his students among them, through the mist." He coughs a little.

"All you alright Mr. Trask?" Jeffrey, leaning in at the waist, pries into the backseat. "You seem, strange." Jeffrey has a better look at the pill container now. His concern is growing. "Are those…Dr. Adler's pills? The counter measures?" He almost can't believe the response.

"Yes. I hadn't counted on being quite so close to the fumes when they hit. But as I said, I wanted to look into his eyes."

"You…You're one of them. The mutants." Jeffrey reaches for his concealed weapon, all faith lost in his employer. He is not quick enough. Though his prey appeared completely unarmed, Jeffrey finds himself impaled on the blade of a sword.

"Can you feel _that_, Jeffrey? In your gut?"

The blood trickles down the back of his pristine grey suit as the blade is withdrawn. He collapses to the asphalt, and Trask takes the wheel.

"You're diseased like the rest of them!" A last condemnation from the dying man on the road.

"No, Jeffrey. Not like the rest."

* * *

Kurt Wagner had to teleport Dr. Adler to safety at least four times before the sedatives kicked. Another dose kept Wolverine calm enough to explain the situation. 

Storm and Nightcrawler had returned to find, to their pleasant surprise, that Wolverine and his party were alright. Scott would be alone in the infirmary, while the rest gathered in the strategy room of the mansion's intricate subterranean levels.

"….a complex level of nanotechnology and quite sophisticated. Colleagues I contacted deemed a lot of what he was proposing to be impossible. I thought combining my biomedical experience with his advanced theories would…would truly help." McCoy removes his glasses, massaging the bridge of his nose and looking distraught. "When I saw what it could really do, what he was really using those machines for…"

"A nano…virus. He created a nano-virus. Professor…" Hank looks at Wolverine, Rogue, and Iceman, who are seated together – their bond restored in shared struggle. "I fear my solution may be temporary at best. Without a pure sample of the virus to investigate, and technology on par with its creation…"

"Actually, Dr. McCoy, based on what I could surmise from your research, you are correct. Your formula's true end product is a hyper-stimulant. An adrenaline shot to the mutant gene, if you will. It amplifies the aspect of latent traits."

"What does that mean for us?" Wolverine asks.

"In English," Rogue adds. Apparently Logan's personality is beginning to rub off.

"Dr. McCoy increased the dosage of his formula to fight the degenerative effects of the disease consuming you. If it has the same side effects it did for him, you may experience…exaggerated displays of your abilities. They could be temporary. They could be permanent. We won't know until a cure based on a sample of the virus can be created."

"Wait a minute, Doctor. Latent traits, amplification. Do you mean…?"

"Yes, Dr. McCoy. You would likely have your current visage eventually…regardless of your experiments." It is Hank's turn to bury himself in thought. The Professor is resolute.

"There's only one way to be sure how they'll react. In the Danger Room."

Storm, Xavier, Hank, and Adler man the above observation tower. Wolverine, like a hockey player in the penalty, occupies a windowed cubicle on ground zero. Rogue and Iceman are to be tested first. The Professor's voice resonates in the chamber.

"We'll start with the agility exercises."

Iceman and Rogue set about evading the pitfalls that the Danger Room provides. Holographic blades complement an array of concussive blasts. For the most part everything goes smoothly. Xavier's old concerns return. The hologram dissolves.

"Enough. Rogue on standby. Wolverine, Iceman. Initiating battle sequences – engaged!"

It happens slowly at first. Bobby had wanted to immobilize a rotating cannon, and called upon his powers to fix it in place. The stream of ice flows as normal, but there is a steadily increasing tingling. The sensation begins to trail up his arm, through his entire body, and he is aware that his entire thought process is focused. Focused on ice – which is what he has become. Wolverine, noticing the change with tooth and claw borne in battle, momentarily breaks his attack.

"Great…Argh!" He pauses to eviscerate a hypothetical opponent. "From Iceman…GRR…to Icecube…" Bobby is a little taken aback by the sarcasm, but even more so at the increased tension in the air. The Professor is concerned with Logan's surging readings.

"Amazing." Storm notes Iceman's new appearance. Adler responds.

"You begin to see now what I meant by accelerating the mutant gene's progression. It amounts to a kind of 'secondary mutation'."

Having failed in aerating Dr. Adler earlier, Logan was eager to vent. His characteristic destructiveness had gone without reprimand, because Xavier needed to know of any side effects before organizing team stratagems. Wolverine is demonstrating those effects now. Xavier knows something is wrong.

"Iceman, Bobby! Disengage. Return to standby room immediately."

"Shouldn't we return Mr. Logan….to his cage?" Dr. Adler had still not forgiven Wolverine's outburst. His comment goes unanswered. Everyone in the control room is in awe.

"Wolverine! Wolverine, calm down….His readings are off the charts…"

Wolverine hears what feels more than ever like his real name break off in cacophonous echo. The blur of images is fast and furious. The laboratory at Alkali, the beast-man he fought over Liberty Island, the invaders in the mansion. They are all around him. He must kill them all…His eyes seem to roll over to a sickly reddened glow.

"RAGHHHHH!" It is more than Rogue can bear. She opens the door to the standby area. She calls him by his name. She tries to bring him back.

"Logan. Logan!"

Xavier watches carefully as Wolverine's monitored vital signs return to passably normal. The only living one who can reach him has brought him back from the brink of madness. It finalizes his team compositions. The X-men assemble in the strategy room.

"If Trask hasn't thought to remove them, we have two chances to secure a sample of the virus: the cure facility, and the Sentinel complex."

"Why the Sentinel complex?" Nightcrawler asks.

"That's how we got sick. They're using the robots to help spread the virus." Bobby explains.

"Hank will lead Kurt, Kitty, and Warren with Dr. Adler to the cure facility, where he'll hopefully be able to track down a sample for us at the source. Free any mutants who may still be there. Storm, these are Adler's coordinates to the factory. You will lead Wolverine, Rogue, and Iceman to that complex. Try to find a functioning Sentinel for a sample of the virus, but that won't be your main objective… Jubilee and I will coordinate from here."

"Why don't I get to go?" Jubilee is not happy with the team appointments. Wolverine sets her straight with a growl.

"Because someone has to help the Professor here. And because your jacket is hurting my eyes." Rogue suppresses a smile.

McCoy and his team ride off in the truck. Storm is prepping the X-jet, and trying to muffle her voice from the passengers behind her.

"Professor, I'm scared. If it returns…"

"Ororo, whether or not you feel it, you are ready. I need you to be ready."

"And Wolverine? If he loses control…" She looks back at her team.

"I know. I didn't want to involve her, but Rogue seems to have a…pacifying effect on Logan. Do your best to protect them."

"I will. You…you said there was another objective?" Xavier looks down at his shoes. Finally he speaks.

"Erik led his mutants after Trask. I see no reason why he would avoid starting at the complex that manufactures the Sentinels. Avoid a conflict with him if you can, but try…." Professor Xavier looks up.

"Try to bring the students back at all costs."

Storm's departure is halted one last time, as Kitty comes running up the ramp of the X-Jet. She is holding a single piece of paper.

"Ororo. This…If you see Peter, where you're going, give him this. Tell him I hope he…I hope it helps him." Storm stares down at the drawing, then over her shoulder at the young girl's trail of tears. With a fabulous roar, the vessel is off.

In his sick bed, Scott Summers' body contorts as he relives some horrible nightmare. His visions are filled with pain and fire.

* * *

Over the years, Erik Lensher has seen the rise and fall of many supposed kingdoms, and their kings. He believes he is seeing his own collapse now. His league is decimated. Only Marko, Colossus, and Pyro stand remain beside him. Most of the converts from Xavier's school have fallen – some unconscious, others worse. The protective field around Magneto has all but dematerialized, and he is showing signs of weakening in the face of the Sentinels that remain. Sheer force of will has kept him going this long, his powers riding an irregular wavelength of peaks and valleys. It is therefore with some measure of irony and relief that he accepts the arrival of Storm and her team. 

"I'm afraid you've already missed most of the fun." He coughs up blood. "But am I to understand that Charles has finally decided to act?" The sarcasm allows him a surge, and metal debris rips a Sentinel to pieces. The others have regrouped in formation, calculating possible courses of action against the new arrivals.

"Magneto, listen to me. We need a Sentinel in one piece. The Professor and Adler are working on a cure. You've got to stop this…" Storm's entreaties fall on deaf ears. But Colossus is moved a little by her pleas.

"Adler? Trask's cure-maker? My dear, you are witnessing the effects of that cure."

"But…" Too late. The robots have finished their computations.

"Mutant targets: 8. Restructuring combat sequence. Initiate." The brief argument is over for now. The Sentinels attack.

Even in the face of a common foe, they fail to stand united. Rogue does her best to remove fallen mutants from the fray. Wolverine engages the giant robots, ignoring screaming metal that occasionally scratches his arms or face. Cain Marko and Colossus become violent jackhammers, trading between charging rampages, and deflecting Sentinel attacks – they have not forgotten their earlier scuffle that left the mansion in ruins. Storm creates a lightning display, the power from which Magneto absorbs to fuel his merciless assaults and retaliations. Pyro and Iceman are oblivious to the carnage as they stare each other down.

"So. Still doing what you're told?" He gives an arrogant smile.

"John, the Professor is trying to help. We made a choice. His dream. The school…"

"Yeah, well I don't know if you noticed, buddy. But the school is history. Just like Xavier."

Like the famous Frost poem, two elements in opposition clash. Streams of fire are tempered by controlled blizzards. Colossus gives pause to view the confrontation – it is the physical manifestation of his most inner turmoil.

"Erik, you've got to believe me. There's still a chance to save these mutants. To save us all. We're on the same side." Once again, Storm pleads with Magneto. Once again, it is to no avail.

"My dear, the only time we are on the same side is when you decide to fight. This is the only cure now - action. It is too late for us. Maybe I can inspire the rest. But you still don't see it, do you? Charles' pacifism has put us in this position. He would see us cornered like dogs. He would see us trapped."

With that, Lensher's power directs a metal pipe at Storm, twisting in mid-air before connecting. She is pinned against a piece of machinery, and bits of metal begin closing around her. Her vision is obscured, yet her eyes are open. She sees a little girl, holding her caretaker's hand as her parents board a bus. She feels constrained - unable to help her parents' good will work, she must stay at home. At once she screams, witnessing a violent burst as her entire world is engulfed in flames. With a single act of terrorism, a child is scarred and alone. Back in the present, the emotions overtake her. She is a child again. She is alone, in agony, forever.

* * *

"Ugh. This is taking forever…" Nightcrawler is disappointed at the laborious task of undermining Trask's security. McCoy speaks calmly in answer. 

"'_To climb steep hills requires slow pace at first' _– William Shakespeare."

"Yeah…you know, maybe we'd all feel more confident in the mission if you'd stop quoting dead guys." Angel had taken a disliking to Hank's learned demeanor. It reminded him of the teachers at his stiff boarding school, of discipline and control. It reminded him of his father.

"How much further is it?" Kitty asks, drawing attention away from inner team turmoil.

"We just got through the second door!" Nightcrawler responds.

"I know but…I'm nervous. I don't wanna be here any longer than I have to. You saw what those mutants looked like on TV. It was total freak show." The words are not out of her mouth before Hank McCoy turns to face them, and Kitty feels a little ashamed.

"Those very same mutants need our help. Ah. There." He seems to have solved the puzzle of the lock mechanism. McCoy turns to Adler looking for approval, and they proceed inside.

"Dr. McCoy, we'll have to split up. I can probably do a better job of avoiding Trask's boyish security gadgets on my own. I'll find the sample from my lab, while you free those poor creatures." Nightcrawler is unhappy with the apparent need to split, but McCoy agrees.

"Fine. But take young Worthington with you. Just in case."

"In case of what?" Kitty is at once both sarcastic and upset. Either she does not believe that Warren is battle-tested yet, or else she is growing fond of looking at him. Worthington, still uneasy with his appearance believes it to be the former. He does not take it well.

McCoy attempts to inspire him. "In case their dreams and aspirations take them to uncharted heights."

Dr. Adler and Warren hurry down the hall. Kitty turns to Nightcrawler and shrugs her shoulders.

"Shakespeare?" She offers, fed up with the references, but taking a guess. Kurt is speechless.

"Nope. Dr. Hank McCoy." He smiles.

* * *

_Some bizarre divine mother – she's on fire again. The flames spiral out from her outstretched arms, yielding an intense glow. Power, pure interminable power, and yet she cries like a child. Kitty. Storm. Rogue. Jean. _

"_It's horrible."_

"_Alone. No!"_

"_Logan!"_

"_Help. Help me."_

_It is stronger than it has ever been. Repeating steadily, a request that demands an answer._

"_Help. Help them. This time, Charles. Help them. Do something…" Demanding an answer. _

"_Alright." He whispers._

"_I will." Louder._

"_YES." He screams in his head._

And then he screams aloud. Cerebro disengages. He can't honestly remember shutting it off.

He had been trying to monitor the teams' progress. The visions arrived in as a landslide. It became a muddled blur very quickly. Something repeating in his head gives him a sense of focus.

"Jubilee. Signal Betsy to bring the car around. We're going."

* * *

_He has rowed for hours, and come to the middle of the lake. Sheer walls of mountainous snow on either distant side of him, undulating darkness below. A glimmer…a hum…a single red spotlight in the blackness underneath. Already rocky waters begin to fester with some mad heat. _

His sheets are waves; he rolls over and under them. Beads of sweat speckle his forehead. His vital signs are steadying, the crimson light advances with the rush of his heart.

_There is a rush of heat, as steam begins to rise up from the lake. Steam? That can't be right. His boat protests, stuttering from side to side. The red spotlight is a flood, running scarlet fever outwards in a radius spanning the entire lake, with the boat seemingly its focus, its origin. _

His eyes tense with some unimaginable strain. A mad rumbling in his throat – he has something to scream. His mouth opens, closes, without sound, swallows the air.

_The glow is practically inside him now, the wind does not exist. A preternatural fog, imperfect in its covering, rises skyward. He gulps for air between splashes of water. The roar is louder. Something is trying to free itself from the murky depths. It is rising. It has come._

His pulse is a staccato rhythm. The room is empty, cold, alone. For a moment, his body twists in a fetal position…He spasms. The light is intense, the low rumbling of the jet accelerating outside echoes his hurling limbs, fighting for invisible holds on either side of the bed. His arms release the bed, stretching out in a messianic pose. Something by the bed crashes to the floor.

_Tense and alone, he tries to grip the boat. Parts of its siding splinter into his hands, the pain jerking his arms inward; his legs bend. A beam of light, the form of a child, a woman, a creature. Though it burns his eyes through his glasses, he must look. He simply can't believe his eyes._

"JEAN!" He calls out to invisible witnesses, his back in arch, his face nearly facing the bedpost. Breathing a sigh of shock, of ecstasy, of release….he is still once more. Scott Summers lies sleeping in unconscious euphoria. The Professor calls out to Jubilee…

* * *

"_Mommy. Daddy. Where are you going?"_

The little girl is still fighting the chill in a dark room when she hears the voice call out to her. It is soft at first, entreating her to follow. She stops crying, and slowly rises off the floor. With every step, the voice is louder, a single light leading her through tenebristic halls of sadness. Clearer. Recognizable. Forms of her family, of her friends.

"_You are Storm of the X-Men…"_

With the last of the Sentinels nearly defeated, Rogue and Iceman are given a moment's rest. Bobby is exhausted by his fight with Pyro, who is pinned to the wall at the waist by a vice grip of ice. His lighter out of reach, John has removed his helmet to use as a primitive bludgeoning ice pick. Rogue is at Bobby's side on the floor - a concerned teammate.

"Another successful date." Bobby winces a little through his smile. Rogue responds.

"Yeah. I've been thinking about that. Maybe we should just split up. Be friends." Rogue surveys the damage. "Stay in and watch a movie every once and a while."

"We may actually live longer." As she helps him up, she smiles, but it fades to panic as she sees Wolverine unconscious on the battlefield.

"_You… Storm…X-Men… you…never…" _It is incessant inside her head. There are more words which she struggles to make out…Just miles away now, Xavier asserts his mental powers, broadcasting as clearly as possible through the haze of Ororo's disturbed mind. It is something he has forgotten to tell her. Something he wished, in essence, that he had told his other daughter. He will not fail again.

"_You are Storm of the X-Men…and you are never alone." _Her eyes open, rolling back like a shark, as her powers manifest under her now lucid state. A lioness' roar, a flash of light, and Ororo Munroe's childhood is gone at last. The sheer force of her rejuvenation has hurled debris in all directions. Lightning currents hum off of her in all directions. She is alive, on fire. She is Storm of the X-Men, in field command, and she has a mission to do. Charles Xavier had mentioned a special request. So had Kitty…

Colossus, annihilating the head of a fallen Sentinel, turns to behold the magnificent spectacle. Storm approaches him. He cautions her, still not completely sure where his fractured allegiance lies.

"I don't want to hurt you…"

"I'm not going to fight you, Peter. I have something for you." She gives him the piece of paper. He scans the lines of his drawing, of the young friend that reminds him of his sister. At once he is returned to a thousand hardships in his native country, a place torn by poverty and revolution. He surveys the action around him.

"Kitty thought this might help you." At this he smiles, and his sagging shoulders arc in a broad display of conviction.

"Yes. I have found my way in the dark."

While Storm turns her attention to the battlefield, Peter's eyes fix on Marko. Cain has just finished dealing with the final Sentinel, with zeal. He is at home in this mad rage, in this wanton destruction. It is his nature. There are no more robots to destroy. Nature abhors a vacuum. Colossus' eyes meet Marko's once more. They both scan the chaos about them.

"It seems whenever we meet it ends up like this." Peter gently laments.

"Yes. It is beautiful." Peter shakes his head at Marko's enjoyment of the destruction.

"In my country, they often make kings of the fools who think as you do."

"Sounds like my kinda town. Maybe I should move there." Colossus powers up. Gentle Peter is gone.

"Then let me help you." A fierce upper cut sends Marko through a dividing wall.

Xavier's van enters from the opposite side haphazardly, breaking through some rubble and grinding the rear axle in the process. The young girl behind the wheel has only recently achieved her driver's license, and has certainly not trained for driving in urban warfare. Storm swoops in towards the vehicle, providing unnecessary cover as Jubilee helps the Professor out to the floor. Colossus and Iceman form in around them.

Charles Xavier takes in the destruction. Marko begins to stir from behind several feet of wall and metal. Wolverine's mutant healing allows him to pull himself off the floor, with aid from Rogue. Magneto has his back to all of them, nursing a wound, while fighting back surging coughs.

"Come to tell me about another way, have you Charles?" Lensher turns to face them. His impact wounds are minimal, but he is beginning to show the pseudo-metallic signs of the virus' effects. His face is hideous, streams of blood and metal on either side of his mouth.

"It's not too late, Erik. We can show the world. Show them even in the wake of this horror that we will not succumb to violence and hate. That we have evolved passed it."

"I'm afraid it is _far_ too late for that, old friend." Xavier's hover-seat is overturned, and he flails to the floor like a rag doll. Magneto's weakness had either been a ruse, or he is again riding a 'peak' of rejuvenation amidst the oscillating flow of his mutant abilities. Marko is fully recovered from the blow Colossus dealt him, and takes the side of his liberator.

Wolverine picks himself off the floor, tired of the banter. He charges at Magneto, but is easily repulsed due to the metal frame that protects his bones. Held in suspension for three unheard beats, he is thrown violently into a wall. Lensher's attention returns to Charles.

"It is our enemies who have changed, Xavier. You have failed to change to meet them. And therein lays the problem."

* * *

"This presents a problem." Hank McCoy states the obvious. 

The floor before them is lit with myriad lights – they are sensitive laser optics, set to trigger an unseen array of weaponry. At the end of the hall stands a security door – not unlike the holographic projection of the Danger Room sequence that left them sore. The doctor begins to scan the walls and ceiling.

"Kurt?" He asks.

"No good. There is no clear footing in front of it. And I can't be sure the thickness of the wall…"

"To 'port us through." Hank finishes the sentence, as he is want to do, having understood the situation.

"I could phase through them. Walk right over, solidify my upper body, and punch in the code. I'm good with computers. Just give me the code." Hank turns to Kitty, a note of wit in his voice.

"I can't give you the code. It's here," McCoy points to his head quoting again, "'within the book and volume of my brain'." He looks up at the narrow beam that runs the length of the hall.

"There we are." With a reverse vault off his hands, McCoy grips the beam in his large feet, proceeding to walk the length of ceiling. Kurt looks to Kitty in admiration of their new friend's agility. Hank comes to rest before the terminal, beginning to enter a mind-boggling series of numbers in rapid succession. The lasers disappear. The overhead lights get brighter, and the door opens.

"Would that our companions have some equal measure of success."

Warren has lost track of Dr. Adler in the endless labyrinth of hallways. The last thing he remembers is Adler's frustrated response.

"Not too much further now…Have you done that _again_?"

It had been too far already. Warren Worthington may be at peace in the open air now, but everyday tasks like walking through a doorway are still a constant struggle. Forgetting the girth and expanse of his new wings, Warren often found himself getting 'caught' in the narrow doorways not meant for living angels. Dr. Adler (for whom dealing with the miracles of genius was the mundane) could not fathom how Worthington kept forgetting to furl his wings. By the time Warren had freeing himself up from the latest episode, Adler was gone. But the departure is deceptively brief.

"Ah. There you are, my boy. Let's get a move on."

"Dr. Adler, are you _alright_?" In the hours since their meeting, he had never referred to Angel as anything other than 'Mr. Worthington.' It made him feel old. Adler senses the concern.

"Yes, I'm fine." He points down the hall at an unconscious figure, obscured in shadows. "One of Trask's men must have thought he had the jump on me. I may spend time in the lab, but I was quite the athlete in my day." Warren rolls his eyes, and the matter is finished. Rounding another hallway, Adler pauses to enter digits into a keypad interface. The door opens.

"Here we are." Angel considers the sight – Adler's lab has been ransacked. Trask must be trying to prevent any of his joint work with Adler from being used against him. Taking in the destruction, Warren remembers the brutish guards that had sought to subdue him in the lower levels only days before. If they were told to leave no tracks, they had apparently rushed their job. The doctor is able to procure the coveted sample from a wall safe to the right…

"Great. Now let's get out of here." Beast is satisfied with the discovery of the mutant holding area. Nightcrawler and Kitty struggle to aid some sickly captives to their feet, as McCoy struggles with the simple math. So many ailing individuals to move, and a sixth-sense of urgency building within him.

"There are dozens of them. If any of them can walk, it would be a big help." A snake-like mutant smiles up at Kitty.

"Um…I think this one can…slither. Does that help?"

McCoy has no time to respond - one of Trask's parting gifts had been to rig the containment facility's cages. Hank would later surmise the process' intricacies, a simple matter of weight displacement triggering the necessary apparatus. But for now he is left in awe. A blaring siren begins to wail, with flashing lights for good measure. He appraises the situation anew. His internal gauge had been correct.

"In the words of your generation, Kitty, I believe it is time for the ceremonial 'walk, don't run to the nearest exit' dance." Hank turns one hundred eighty degrees to the large wall opening behind them. Rows and rows of small scout Sentinel drones begin to funnel into the room. Kitty wearily phases to avoid a blast, having dealt with them in the past. Kurt teleports two mutants to the relative safety of the back of the area, narrowly escaping death. The rescue mission is fast becoming a battle. McCoy is stopped in his tracks by the quantity of obstacles before them.

"Oh my stars and garters."

* * *

Wolverine grows more agitated by the minute. His repeated advances toward Magneto are deflected – his adamantium skeleton used against him. Lensher makes a habit of pummeling Logan against the walls. Every assault by the X-man is parlayed by Magneto's power, or Marko's brute strength. Another thud echoes throughout the room, and Wolverine falls to the ground. 

"You have spirit, Wolverine, I'll give you that. It makes understanding how you can sit idly by Charles' endless speeches…all the more difficult. He seems to have you on a short leash." Magneto has long since discovered how to push Logan's buttons, by injecting a constant barrage of animal references.

"Don't listen to him Logan, he's baiting you." Storm offers what support she can while Xavier grimaces in mental strain on the ground. He is occupied with Marko, trying to enter his mind in order to render him unconscious. Cain shuffles the room like a beggar, desperately seeking the helmet he lost in combat, which can protect him from the Professor's invasions. With the battle around him, it is difficult for Xavier to focus. His mind in shards, his attention is split. He wants to help Wolverine. He wants to stop Cain, he wants to calm Logan…

"Get outta MY HEAD!" Marko pleads to his step-brother. "It's your fault, Charles! You let them take me away!" Colossus harasses the massive foe, hoping to keep him from his helmet.

"Professor, is it true?" Storm must know. She dares to break Xavier's concentration.

"I…yes. Cain Marko is my half-brother. We had a rough time of it in our youth. I chose to engage in studies, he chose to bury himself in rage. As we got older, I realized…I just couldn't help him. I _arranged_ for him to be cared for…"

"But the soldiers, the experiments he talks about…"

"Storm, you must believe, I had no idea he was a victim, like the rest. He…Marko was so violent, so angry, I just… Once he was finally gone…"

"You just wanted to forget him…" Xavier nods, disappointed in himself. Lensher has split his time between manhandling Wolverine and eavesdropping on the Professor's discussion.

"This begins to bore me. If I'm to die like this, I won't go alone." With a final thrust, Logan is smeared to the wall. His body arises reluctantly, fueled by his feral rage, but visibly showing extreme wear. His suit is a shambles, with his arms and most of his torso exposed. Unbeknownst to Wolverine, Lensher has begun to detach a yacht-sized chunk metal from the ceiling, intent on crushing his foe. Rogue, sensing Wolverine's complete lack of self-preservation, recalls the Danger Room trials - Logan is unhealthily blind to his environment. She knows what she has to do. Abandoning Bobby on the floor, she runs for her surrogate father.

A detonation, as metal and wiring are freed. A bellow, a scream, and it all comes tumbling down.

"Logan! Watch out!" She screams, knowing he won't acknowledge. There is no need. A fraction of a second, and she is there, body checking Logan in his back. He is hurled well clear of the mass, a thunderclap signals its meeting with the floor, and the entire foundation shakes. In an animals crouch, he had witnessed the impact.

No one can quite believe it at first. Pyro is freed of Bobby's frozen vice, which has dribbled away in bits at massive vibrations from the crash. But he gets no further than his lighter, frozen in shock. Bobby, clutching a wounded side in his thawed state, lies on the floor. His face is both question and fear. Cain and Colossus suspend their dance in shock - Peter phases his metal form to flesh unconsciously, while Marko shakes the mental cobwebs from his head. Storm, at Xavier's side, cries out. She had only recently conquered demons like this. For her family, for Jean. To lose another…

There is a second, deafening, internal crash as Wolverine pieces it together. Every attempt by the Professor to enter his mind is violently pushed away. No calming. Not now. Not ever.

As though he faces every stage of loss in the span of a minute, Wolverine's face contorts; the events unfold in agonizingly slow chronology in his head… In a blind rage, Wolverine had previously been charging Magneto. Logan witnessed Rogue crushed by the massive brick, angry at the loss. Wolverine looks with hate at the cause of his grief, transcending all previous levels of feral intensity. Something in him finds that hate is the common thread in all the emotions. He holds on to it for all its worth.

"No….rrr…RARGHHHHHH!" There is a 'snikt' of metal. He charges blindly.

There would be some question later as to whether or not Magneto made any attempt to evade the lethal assault - if his powers had simply weakened at that point so as to prevent him from falling prey. Or if his conscience had finally awakened, as though in the face of pure hate and animal rage, he could only respond with all in him that was still human. They all would ponder it in time. What is certain is this: there is fear of loss. There is hunger for revenge. There is no sound.

The third thundering impact is the fall of the Master of Magnetism to the ground.

* * *

A well-timed mule-kick by McCoy sends the man-sized Sentinel to the floor. 

"Kurt, how many?" He repeats it over and over….Nightcrawler picks up the whole sentence after twenty reiterations. His reply is just as stuttered.

"About twelve." Twelve mutants left, with as many Sentinels with which to contend.

Following his improvised plan of attack, the three mutants are still struggling to keep the droids at bay. Kitty and Hank run interference, amidst incessant puffs of sulfurous smoke. Nightcrawler teleports in and out of the room, across whatever hallways he can remember, in order to amass the formerly encaged mutants into the grand waiting room. From there, the released prisoners crawl for the exits, assisted by their slightly healthier comrades.

"Which way now?" Warren's urgent demand is punctuated by the laser blasts that rip the wall beside him. Adler is decidedly less aware of his surroundings then before, though Worthington has little time forgiving him. He saves the doctor from another ricochet.

"They've blocked off the west wing…this way." Rounding the hallway, they stop in view of the approaching platoon.

"It looks like they got the east wing too." Warren notes the door behind him. "Where does that lead?" Adler thinks for a minute.

"To the observation deck…"

"Above the large waiting room?"

"Yes." Warren smiles, Hank's inspiration coming to mind…

"Any bright ideas?" Kitty is desperate.

"Nothing's coming to mind." McCoy looks around. They are clearly trapped, with all exits blocked and no obvious footholds above to merit an escape.

Nightcrawler has successfully teleported all the injured mutants to the lower area, where they struggle to reach the doors. The excessive 'porting has left him considerably weakened, and Kitty lends a shoulder for support. Kurt's knees buckle. The force of his fall causes Kitty to lose her balance, and she stumbles toward one of the attackers. Fortunately, she has the presence of mind to phase to her permeable form. Something electric and confused happens within the head of the robot that would have broken her fall. Smoke releases from its neck and joints. With an anticlimactic rattle, it plummets to the floor. Hank marvels at the unintended experiment's success.

"I thought you said you were good with computers." McCoy muses.

"Well, I am. I've just never actually gone…through one, before." The renewed sense of hope has Hank feeling prophetic.

"Ms. Kitty Pryde, the cat who isn't really there, the Shadowcat. Tell me Kitty, have you ever played tetherball?" She looks to the ground, she looks at McCoy. Smiling she leaps to his outstretched arms and transfigures her body. The blue mutant grips her by her still-solid hands and forearms, whirling her through a couple of Sentinels that fall in sizzling heaps to the floor.

Warren spins across the floor from the impact, his back singed below the wings. Adler scoops him off the floor, metal attackers bearing down on them. Rounding another corner, they come to the door of Trask's observatory. The doctor seals it by entering a numerical code, letting out a sigh as he turns to the young man.

"Bolivar Trask insisted on privacy – this room is sound-proof and nearly impenetrable. We'll be safe in here."

"You mean we'll be trapped in here." Angel corrects, craning his neck about the room.

There is not much to view, as Trask apparently cleaned out whatever furniture or equipment once filled his study. Warren's eyes follow along the vast window leading down to the waiting room. Continuing along the paneling, he views the mounted artwork of Trask's collection. One picture remains. Grabbing it on either side, Angel braces his feet to pull it off the wall. His effort sends him backward, and Adler steps aside to avoid the collision. Twisting his body, his wings cupping wind, he hurls the drawing through the window. Adler's protests fail to hinder Warren from sweeping him up and carrying them in a graceful parabolic descent to the crowd below.

Nightcrawler, Kitty, and Beast rush up to greet their landing, the male mutants holding ailing captives. Kitty leads two younger mutants as best she can.

"Can we go now?" One of the little ones asks.

"With all possible speed." Hank comforts them.

"Back to the mansion?" Kurt asks.

"No. Not yet. I just tried contacting Charles, and no one is there. He must have gone after the others. Now that we have the sample, we've got to let them know their mission is done." A battle-weary Warren turns to McCoy.

"Yeah, well. I've had enough excitement for a lifetime. You get your _cure_ to Xavier. I'm outta here." Beast is saddened by Worthington's fatalistic tone.

"You still don't see it, do you? The good you can do. What you are…"

"And what exactly is that? What have I become?" Hank tries to calm him.

"What you've become is not as important as what you choose to do. How you use your abilites…"

"I don't _want_ my abilities…" Adler carefully reviews Angel's despondency.

"If the boy is troubled, science may still be able to help him. Come with me, Warren Worthington, and perhaps we can find an answer together."

"If that is his will." McCoy shakes his head.

"But there will always be a place for you at the mansion." Kurt offers a hand.

"If there still _is_ a mansion." Kitty adds.

As Adler and Angel fly off, Hank resolves to carry on the struggle. "We still have to contact the Professor. And there is the matter of shutting down the machines. There must be a master control…"

* * *

Logan's mind races as he looks down at the blood on his claws. Men in lab coats, a scientist wearing circular spectacles, the hum of machinery, and the old dimness surround him. Someone flips a switch, and the searing metal pours through his body. His vision fails, to the backdrop of his animal howl. 

Back in the present, he scans the room mindlessly, meeting the faces of his comrades. Storm and Xavier are still hunched over from the emotional shock. Iceman's head is bowed, streaming tears of ice, in irregular pebbles to the ground. Awarded no rest in light of the tragedy, Colossus instead struggles to keep Marko subdued while the Professor collects himself. Peter loses the advantage, his arm held behind his back while Cain repeatedly drives his head into the ground. A broken water pipe drizzles over the two of them.

"Agh, come on! You're making it too easy. Had enough, runt?" Xavier's mind races at the familiar slur…

"_You can't run." He rounded the side of the house, down stone placements to the garden. Passing the gazebo, little Charlie spared a glance over his shoulder. His large pursuer had a sadistic grin, and was almost upon him. They smaller boy made it to the edge of the garden, reaching the ornate fountain, just as the bully had grabbed him by the collar. He was pulled to the ground, his arms hogtied behind him. The birds scattered from the scene, shrilling a warning. Lifting Charles up by his legs and arm, Marko dunked him repeatedly into the fountain. His pleas gurgle in the murky water. His attacker smiles._

"_You make it too easy, Charlie. Charles, can you hear me? Had enough, Charlie Boy? Had enough yet, you little runt?" _The Professor's mind is clear. Marko taunts Colossus anew.

"I guess you have. I guess you're through. I'll finish you and then poor, little Charles."

"No, Marko. You won't. There's been enough destruction for one day."

In the thrill of battle, Cain had lost interest in his helmet. His mind is now on fire as the Professor probes his deepest suppressions. Xavier's questions assault him from every angle. "Where did the hate come from, Cain? Where did it come from? Where did you…?"

"_Where'd you get this? From little Charlie? You wanna learn? You think you're smarter than your old man, do ya? I'll teach you something. Gimme that. You know why you're getting this, boy? 'Cause you're weak. You hear me? Weak. You wanna go to school, do ya. You wanna leave me here by myself?"_

"_No, dad, no! I wanna go home. I wanna go home…"_

"I WANT TO GO HOME!" He screams out at last. With a sudden, anticlimactic thud, the giant mountain falls. Only the fuses and rushing water betray a sound.

"We…had better get going." Xavier breaks the silence at last. "Before the authorities arrive..."

"I'll see if I can rouse any of the others. We've got to clean up and get out of here." Storm insists. Xavier corrects her.

"Clean up? No. There's no cleaning this."

Wolverine's ears pick up the subtle movement first. He becomes gradually aware of his environment once more. Something slides beneath the floor. There is a shift of tremendous weight. The large brick in the center of the room seems to sway. Its slow crawl becomes unavoidable evident, and the X-Men look questioningly at the mass. From a puddle of his own fluids on the floor, Magneto observes. At once, the gargantuan block is hurled, at a forty-five degree angle, across the room and through the walls. A tuft of brown hair, with a single grey streak, pokes out through the footprint of the still flying object. The brick lands with a distant thud, and the mutants try to make sense of what they are witnessing.

"Rogue?" Storm questions – the look on the face of her now-revived friend shares the sense of surprise. Iceman recognizes the familiar, confused look.

"Marie!" Bobby shouts, picking himself off the floor, but unable to advance due to his injuries.

"Amazing." Xavier is all but speechless.

Logan is nearly tearing with the return of his young friend, but his celebration is interrupted by the harsh realization of his actions. He stares at his handiwork. Lensher looks up at him, and then to Rogue, then to Charles.

"I have tried to tell you, have I not, that we're stronger than you realize, Charles."

"The effects of the secondary mutation…" Xavier almost whispers. He turns to Lensher. "It is a moral victory, old friend. I fear, in my delay, that Trask's mark has been made.

"Then perhaps this can help to erase it." Blood oozing from the large wound to his gut, metallic fluid seeping down his cheeks and chin, Erik Lensher turns over on the floor. He is holding a small device, like a radio, which he meekly charges with his field, sending it on its way. It runs parallel to the floor, passing over Marko's fallen body towards the Professor's waiting hands.

"I saw Trask operating his monstrosities with this. Perhaps you can put it to better use. I hope, in the coming days without me, you will at last not fail our kind." His light is extinguished. The device falls into the Professor's hands. The Professor bows his head.

"I truly hope so, Erik."

McCoy's team arrives, strolling cautiously around what's left of Xavier's vehicle. Colossus turns to smile at Kitty, the drawing clutched in one hand. Nightcrawler joins Storm's side, and she hugs him for strength in the aftermath of the emotional turmoil. Beast and Kitty approach the Professor.

"We have the sample, Professor. But the Sentinels."

"Take this. It should hold the answer to that problem." As he prepares to hand the device over, Kitty is eager to help. She is intent on having a look at the device.

"In its damaged state, it is highly sensitive electronic equipment…" At the Professor's comment, Nightcrawler teleports over, just in time to intercept Kitty from grabbing the device. Kurt hands it over to Hank, smiling at the young girl.

"Just in case," Kurt innocently explains.

Wolverine has not moved from the floor. As the rest of the X-men prepare to depart, Rogue notices Logan's nearly Zen position. Fragments of her tattered uniform flapping in the slight breeze of the night air, she joins him. Marie rests a gloved hand on his burdened shoulders.

"Come on, Logan. It's time to leave." He slowly meets her gaze.

"Yes. It is."

* * *

Several of the younger mutants join Arty and Frequency in the remodeled room. A young mutant tries to shield her eyes from the afternoon sun's blaring glow, as a news reporter comments on the deactivation of the Sentinels. A formal apology by the governments of the world has been issued. Storm peeks in to check on them, smiling at how quickly they had managed to procure a television, while the walls of the room still lie in rubble. She returns to the study, with a more serious look on her face. Peter, McCoy, Kurt, Logan, and the Professor have their heads bowed as if in silent prayer. Wagner breaks the quietude. 

"Are you really sure you have to leave, Herr Logan?" Kurt asks.

Peter adds, "The students…Rogue will miss you."

"It's time for me to move on. I've still got other places to check out, to piece together who I am. She's…strong enough now to take care of herself."

"Where is she, by the way?" Hank asks.

The Professor smiles. "I believe she's helping Forge with my van…" He turns to look out the fractured window.

They all pull in to get a view. Outside by the garage, Rogue is heaving the mass of the van over her head.

"That's it. That's it. THERE!" Forge directs the elevation. Bobby strolls up to Rogue, and with a smile begins to form four pillars of ice below the corners of the wreck. Marie releases the car, turning towards the window to wave her hand and smile at Xavier. Wolverine knows she is finally at peace with her powers, and that she feels at last like an effective member of the team. He smiles a little and turns to leave.

"Logan. You've only just begun to understand this new aspect. The energy, the rage…"

"That's why I have to go, Chuck. I…" He looks toward the window, then to his teammates around him. "I can't afford another relapse." Wolverine leaves the room.

"He can take care of himself, Charles. And he'll be back…" McCoy turns to Xavier, "The turnover rate is pretty high for teachers at this school." The Professor smiles a little. Peter, Kurt, and Storm begin to leave.

"I think I'll go check in on Scott." She informs. Xavier nods. He and Hank are left alone in the room.

"One returns, another goes away." Hank is searching his extensive library within his mind for fitting quotations. Xavier interrupts him.

"Yes. Jean. Scott. Erik. Logan. They grow up, they make their choice. They face this strange new world with the lessons we give them."

"You're still thinking of what Lensher said. About failing them."

"I can't help it, Hank. Have I prepared them…properly? Have I been too soft? They will face fear. Hatred. Death. Some will live, and some will die. My horrendous visions, the fire and destruction. Have my lessons turned the tide of this war for change, or merely stemmed the inexorable approach of some…Armageddon? My teachings, but their lives. Their choices."

"'It is not in the stars to hold our destiny, but in ourselves.' Nothing is certain, Professor. In the end, the decisions they make will define their character, though the outcomes won't always be favorable. We give them the knowledge we have. Our advice. Our wisdom. Our help. What they do with it is what makes them who they are." Xavier smiles at the return of his wise friend.

"Is that my lesson for the day, Dr. McCoy? To hope they will make the right decisions?"

"It is as good a place to start as any."

"Then I'll begin by hoping for a speedy recovery to…"

A signal, and Xavier presses a button on his chair.

"Yes?" A panicked voice responds.

"Professor, it's Scott…He's…"

Someone stampedes through the door. McCoy reels, then freezes. The Professor looks up at his oldest surviving student. A radiant gleam in his eye seems to reflect through those protective lenses. Somewhere overhead in the reaches of space, a luminous being completes the hundredth of five hundred orbits around the earth.

"She's alive, Professor. Jean's _alive_."

* * *

"Oh, Jeffrey. I'm so glad you're alright. Warren, I want you to meet Jeffrey. He's an old student of mind from my university days." They exchange greetings. 

"Through no easy pains, we've been able to convince the government that you had nothing to do with Trask's mad scheme, Doctor. Most of the necessary equipment, as well as your notes, were recovered from impoundment."

"Excellent. Would you prepare the device while I advise Mr. Worthington." Jeffrey leaves through the door with a nod, and Warren turns to Dr. Adler.

"Do you really believe we can find a cure? That I'll be…normal, again?"

"I must confess, Warren, that I don't know why you don't feel that you're normal now. The beauty and the grace of your unusually light frame, it's a scientific wonder, a wonder of nature…"

"We've been over this before, Doctor. I don't care about my precious gifts. I want it to end. I'm done feeling like a freak show when I walk into the room."

"Very well. Right this way, then." Adler leads Warren through the door that Jeffrey had departed. Once through, they see Jeffrey seated at a console, as the doctor leads Worthington towards a tubular device. Strapped in to the vertically-aligned, table-like structure, his frame is further stabilized by metal rods at the hands and feet. The table declines to a plane, parallel with the floor. Once at this horizontal position, it slides into the tubular frame, coming to a stop with an echoed clamor.

"Will it hurt, Doctor Adler?" Warren asks in innocent concern. Jeffrey speaks up from behind his monitor.

"Throughout the natural world, change is accompanied by a certain level of discomfort, as the organism clings to its previous form. Let go of your fears of abnormality, of your thoughts of the cruel world. This world will be dead to you, very soon. Turn your mind to the words of a famous man, whom I've reluctantly come to admire: 'That which doesn't kill you makes you stronger.' You will soon be stronger than you ever thought possible…" The device is sealed. Warren's world begins to whirl. He will wail for hours.

"He'll make a suitable addition to the others." Adler comments, now in the eerily reverberating voice of Mystique. The yellow eyes glow as her form returns to feminine.

"He is not an addition. He is the pinnacle…." Jeffrey's form slowly morphs into the likeness of Bolivar Trask. He looks down at the subjects on his monitor. A frail looking woman stares longingly at the petals of a flower. She touches one, and the entire plant withers to dust. An emaciated woman is alerted by a squeak on the floor. She is alone and starving. With a swipe of her hand, the rodent is captured. But before she raise it to her mouth, the mouse has practically shrunk, its ribcage sticking out through now draping skin. In a perfectly square room, Cain Marko is crying out that he wants to return home. As his pleas go unanswered, he becomes more belligerent. Warren continues to scream in the spinning device.

"Look at them. Hollow men all, they have wasted their gifts. Spit in the face of the evolution that grants them purpose – that sustains them. They are lost. But the ends justify the means. I am the means. I have come to show them the end. We will begin this world anew."

"Through change? A great movement towards change at last?" Mystique offers.

"Movement? No. Through this world's Apocalypse."

Trask's eyes glow red as he morphs into a bio-mechanical mass. He muses at the screams and cries of Warren and Marko, blaring out in morbid unison.

"_This is the way the world ends. Not with a bang, but a whimper_."


End file.
